


The family you choose yourself

by Zaeris



Series: Family Bonds [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Dysfunctional Family, F/F, Family Issues, M/M, PTSD, Romance, Self-Acceptance, Sexual Identity, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-14 11:39:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 60,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaeris/pseuds/Zaeris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson had accepted long ago that life was what happened while you were busy making other plans. With all the madness that he dealt with since coming back from Afghanistan, he'd pretty much given up on trying to make too many big plans for his future. Then Sherlock fell and suddenly John found himself left alone with nothing. </p><p>Now, Sherlock has come back and John finds himself unexpectedly forced into the role of father while he struggles to make sense of his feelings about his eccentric flatmate and his plans for the future. Luckily he's got some well-meaning friends to help him along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

It had been just over two years since Sherlock had jumped from the roof of St. Bart's. The time since had been hellish for John Watson. It was like being invalided out all over again. Suddenly he found himself all alone and without a purpose. In some ways it was worse than returning from Afghanistan because there was no 'going home' when his life was destroyed this time. All of London kept on living and John found himself on the outside, unsure if he even had a place without Sherlock. Some days he wasn't even sure he wanted a place in a world without his best friend. 

 

It hadn't helped that he couldn't even talk to most of the people he'd considered friends prior to Sherlock's “death” without getting either angry or depressed. He had been really and truly alone when Mary had found him. 

 

Mary Morstan was a sensible woman. She could see past John's broken exterior to the kind and loyal heart held within. They met at a singles mixer that John had gone to with Lestrade to celebrate his divorce. After a few dates John finally told her about Sherlock. 

 

Mary had experienced loss in her own life and the two bonded. They were far from a perfect couple, but neither much fancied being alone any longer. After much coaxing she convinced John to move in with her. It was a comfortable arrangement, but on those nights when John was feeling especially melancholy and honest with himself he knew there was something missing. 

 

He'd broached the subject of marriage and children before, jokingly of course. Now that they were living together it seemed the next logical step. Mary apologized profusely, she had no interest in being a mother so late in life and marriage just wasn't a priority for her. John had accepted that, John had gotten used to accepting things since Sherlock's fall. 

 

When Harry had told him that she and Clara were giving it another go, John had been outwardly pleased for the two of them. Only a complete berk hates people for being happy, but that didn't stop John from resenting all the second chances his sister was given. 

 

When she invited him over for dinner he was sure it was to announce that after only a few months they had decided to retie the knot and make their relationship official again. John had put off the invitation far longer than was socially acceptable. Mary had offered to accompany him, but John didn't see fit to subject her to his sister for an entire eventing. 

 

After a long tube ride and a brisk walk he found himself knocking at the flat Harry and Clara shared. Clara opened the door beaming at him.

 

“John! You made it, come in, how are you?” She asked, ushering him inside. Clara had dark curly hair, brown eyes, and an honest smile. It was easy to see why Harry was so taken with her.

 

“Doing well, thanks,” John said returning her smile.

 

“There you are little brother, right on time,” Harry called out from the kitchen. She entered wiping her hands on a tea towel before giving John a hug.

 

“Food's almost ready, keep Clara company a minute while I get everything set up,” Harry said. She slipped back into the kitchen quickly.

 

“You're letting her cook?” John asked raising an eyebrow at his sister-in-law.

 

“Barmy isn't it?” Clara said with a laugh, “Who would have thought our Harry would ever settle down and be domestic?”

 

“I can hear you two!” Harry called, causing them both to grin. 

 

Harry had actually made a passable lasagna, much to John's surprise. When he'd left for basic training his sister's culinary skills began and ended with toast. She'd come a long way since she'd cleaned herself up after the divorce.

 

After finishing dinner they had a very lovely pudding of rhubarb crumble (which Clara admitted to making) and sipped some tea. All in all it was probably the best John had eaten in weeks and he made it a point to say so, much to Harry's delight.

 

“So, you said you had some news?” John asked. He readied his 'I'm happy for you' smile even as he felt something in his stomach shifting uncomfortably.

 

Harry's eyes lit up at this and she pulled Clara close.

 

“We sure do, Clara and I are hoping to be expecting,” Harry said. John gave a confused half smile unsure what to make of this news. He turned to Clara for an explanation.

 

“What Harry means,” Clara said, rolling her eyes playfully at John, “is that we've decided we'd like to have a baby.”

 

Maybe John shouldn't have been so surprised, but he really hadn't been expecting this.

 

“Wow, really? How? I mean congrats, obviously,” John said with a blush. He gave them both a hug.

 

“Clara's convinced me that it's time we started our family,” Harry said. She held Clara's hand fondly.

 

“Well, we're not getting any younger, especially Harry, “Clara teased, “and things are going so well it just seems like the next logical step.”

 

“Fantastic, really I'm thrilled for you two,” John said, “If I'd had known you were gonna make me an Uncle I'd have brought you both flowers or something.”

 

“Actually,” Harry said grinning, “There is something you could do for us.”

 

“Um sure, what do you need? Bit early to ask for babysitting, but I'm keen,” John said.

 

“This is something a bit more immediate actually, and a little personal,” Clara said with a blush.

 

“Right, gonna let me in on it then?” John asked.

 

“We'd like you to be Clara's donor,” Harry said.

 

“If you need time to think it over we completely understand of course,” Clara interrupted quickly.

 

“Your donor?” John asked, momentarily confused before the implication sunk in, “Oh, OH.”

 

“We thought about adopting, but this way it's the closest thing to us being able to have a baby together,” Harry said holding Clara closer.

 

“Like I said John, if you need some time to think it over or talk with someone first we'd understand. We know it's a big deal,” Clara said.

 

“Not that you have anything on right now anyway,” Harry said. Clara shot her a stern look.

 

“What? We thought it might be awkward if you and Mary were thinking about making things official, but I think we've all given up waiting for that to happen,” Harry said.

 

“Sorry, what?” John asked, frowning.

 

“Harry, don't be rude when you're asking someone for a favor,” Clara said.

 

“John's fine Clara, he's gotta be used to it by now. All I'm saying is that he might as well help us out since he's doesn't have his own commitments getting in the way.”

 

“Cheers,” John said, his face reddening.

 

“Oh come on John, don't be that way,” Harry said.

 

“What way is that Harry? Not instantly ready to do everything you ask just because you've managed to get your life in order, finally?”

 

“You won't have to raise the baby John, just leave a little something in a cup and the doctors take care of the rest. Honestly, you'd think you never had a wank before.”

 

“Harry!” Clara shouted sternly.

 

“I should go, thank you both for a lovely dinner,” John said, standing to retrieve his coat. He should have known things were going too smoothly. Harry never could keep her foot out of her mouth for long when the topic of his personal life came up. Part of the reason he'd refused to flat share with her when she left Clara after he'd returned from the war.

 

“Just because you don't want a family doesn't mean you have to be a prat about us wanting one,” Harry shouted.

 

John's nostrils flared as he rounded to face his sister.

 

“Who says I don't want that? You'd never bothered to ask have you? Wasn't about you so it wasn't important. Maybe I do want a family Harry, one that doesn't make me feel horrible whenever I'm with them,” John snapped as he swiftly walked out of the flat, slamming the door behind him.

 

He made it two blocks before he heard someone calling his name. He considered ignoring it and speeding up, but he was already walking as quickly as he could without breaking into a sprint and he realized that it was Clara calling after him, not Harry. With a resigned sigh he ran a hand through his hair and waited for her to catch up to him.

 

“John, I'm so sorry,” Clara said, panting from jogging after him.

 

“Don't apologize for her Clara, you're not supposed to have to do that anymore,” John said. He took a deep breath and met his sister-in-law's eyes.

 

“You know she didn't mean anything by it, she was just worried you'd say no and didn't think about anything else,” Clara said.

 

“Is that really the kind of person you want to raise a child with?” John asked.

 

“John, I know how Harry is, she's not malicious, well not when she's sober and she is sober now John. I've wanted this for so long, I just didn't want to wait anymore and have everything fall apart again,” Clara said.

 

John frowned, he knew all too well about having life fall apart. Sometimes it felt like that was all his ever did. Clara was a good person, and despite his strained relationship with Harry, John knew that Clara was good for her. She'd also make an excellent mum.

 

“Look, I don't expect you to agree to it right now, not after that, but just consider it, please, for me?” Clara asked giving his arm a squeeze.

 

“Okay,” John replied.

 

“Thank you John,” Clara said. She turned to head back to the flat.

 

“No, Clara wait,” John called. She turned back to him, her dark hair fluttering in the breeze.

 

“I meant, okay I'll do it,” John said.

 

Her face lit up instantly. “Oh John, really?”

 

“Yeah, you'd make a great mum Clara, you should have that chance. Even if Harry doesn't deserve you,” John said, his sad smile taking the sting out of his words.

 

“Thank You!” Clara yelped, enthusiastically hugging him. “Oh, John you absolutely the best man in the world. I can't tell you how much this means to me. You're going to be an amazing uncle.”

 

“I hope so,” John said, his smile growing wider at the thought.

 

“I should get back and tell Harry the good news,” Clara said, when she finally released him. “I'll call you next week and we'll start working out the details.”

 

“I'm looking forward to it,” John said.

 

“Thank you so much,” Clara said with a wave as she darted off back home.

 

John watched her go as a feeling of melancholy set in. Maybe this was all he'd ever have. Maybe it would have to be enough. He went home and told Mary the news.

 

Clara had taken care of the the particulars of John's 'donation' within a few weeks of their dinner. She had called him a month later to let him know that she was officially pregnant. He'd been invited over again to celebrate, but John had politely declined. He still wasn't keen on spending any more time in Harry's presence than absolutely necessary, even if she had apologized for the incident.

 

Fortunately, Clara had taken it upon herself to serve as the go-between for them and texted John pregnancy updates every-so-often. Even so John was surprised when she called to invite him to the ultrasound. This time Mary hadn't offered to come along.

 

He was a bit nervous about being there for such an intimate thing, but he had to admit to some curiosity about the life growing in his sister-in-law's belly. Especially considering he had some part in putting it there, however clinically.

 

Harry and Clara met him at the clinic one bright afternoon. Clara was barely showing, but the way Harry fussed over her left no doubt that the tiny bump was anything other than an expected baby. John briefly wondered what the other expectant parents made of the three of them going back to the exam room together. At least Clara's doctor was already filled in on all the particulars of who John was and why he was being included in the proceedings. John didn't fancy having to introduce himself at the uncle/father of his sister-in-law's child.

 

John stood by Harry while the doctor spread gel over Clara's stomach then began searching with the ultrasound transducer. The grainy image on the screen was difficult for even John to make any sense of and his sister was positively lost. Fortunately the technician was quick to point out all points of interest, including what she claimed was an arm and the side of a leg. Once all fingers and toes were accounted for she popped the question, “Do you want to know that sex?”

 

“Yes!” Harry said, gripping Clara's hand tightly.

 

“No, Harry, I thought we wanted to be surprised?” Clara admonished.

 

“That was before it was right there in front of us, how can you not want to know?” Harry asked.

 

“What do you think John?” Clara asked with a sigh at her lover's impatience.

 

“Oh no, don't drag me into a domestic. I'm just glad it's all in one piece,” John said with a smile, realizing that he actually meant it.

 

Harry begged and Clara giggled at her antics before finally relenting. That night John returned to Mary and told her that Clara and Harry were expecting a son. John noted the sadness in Mary's eyes as she congratulated him. When he asked about it she assured him everything was “fine.”

 

Four months later, Sherlock Holmes returned from the dead.


	2. The new normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John falls back into his role as Sherlock's sidekick, but it's possible that things between them have altered slightly. Also, Clara has a minor crisis.

Amanda Marks was in her late twenty's with honey colored hair and full lips that had likely been the object of many a man's affection Her outfit suggested she lived a life of reasonable means and that she worked in an office environment. She was also presently, by John's calculation, very much dead, and had been for at least the past six hours. 

Sherlock whipped out his glass and took a closer look at Mrs Marks' fingernails, muttering deductions to himself at breakneck speed while Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade looked on tiredly. 

“Asphyxiated on some foreign matter, then bled out posthumously, but why?”Sherlock asked himself, standing back for a better look. 

“Well, that's what I was hoping you would figure out actually,” Lestrade said. 

“Takes a psycho to find a psycho,” Anderson said, smirking. 

“Anderson, don't you have something useful to do, like shut up?” Sherlock asked. 

Anderson opened his mouth to reply, but Lestrade cut him off with a wave of his hand, “Alright, that's five minutes, I need anything you've got.”

“Alright, your murderer is a painter, self-declared artist actually. Older than the victim, but not old enough to have been at this long. Feels unappreciated and recently had a rather dramatic departure from whatever art-esque job he'd been holding.” Sherlock said quickly.

“Right, of course, but for the sake of argument why don't you tell me how you know any of that?” Lestrade asked. 

John smiled, the DI had fallen back into an easy alliance with the now returned consulting detective, though Sherlock's involvement in official Yard cases was understandably minor. Apparently even after being cleared of all charges the Met wasn't too eager to make the same mistake again in regards to having complete trust in Sherlock Holmes. 

“Paint smears on the soles of her shoes, not likely encountered in her daily work. Nail polish worn on both hands, could be time for a touch-up, but she's a professional, she doesn't let them go this long without attention so she's been in contact with some paint solvent. White paint smear on her left coat sleeve, she's right handed though, so she brushed into something when she was pushed down. State of dress and fog of perfume indicates she was on a date, so she knew the assailant. Likely took pity on him because of his failed job situation, receipt for dinner in her pocket indicates she paid for both meals.” Sherlock smiled. 

“Ah yeah, now that you point it all out,” Lestrade said, making quick notes for later. 

“Check the back rooms of local art galleries, you'll find the rags she was choked on and some rather sub par paintings done in a particular shade of off red that even Anderson should be able to identify,” Sherlock concluded. 

“Will do, thanks for your help,” Lestrade said, he meant it, but had to keep an air of dispassionate interest in his tone for the sake of appearances. 

There was a time when Sherlock would have insisted on following up on the lead himself, on tracking down the killer with John in tow and calling on the Met when all the heavy work was well and done, but his relations with London's finest were still a bit strained so, at John's suggestion he worked hard to keep his consulting to an actual consulting level and let the Yarders do the rest. 

 

“Very well done,” John commented, as they made their way to the cab stand.

“They are going to let him slip away,” Sherlock said. 

“No they won't, Lestrade will get him. You gave him everything he needed,” John said. 

“We could always just pop by a few places,” Sherlock said, hopefully. 

“Sherlock, you know we can't. Lestrade's just started to come round, if you overstep things you're gonna get yourself banned again. Frankly, the wall can't take it,” John said. 

“My name was cleared John, I don't see why everyone insists on behaving as if I might have had some part in Moriarty's plot at this point,” Sherlock snapped. 

John just sighed, as always his friend was oblivious to the emotional toll his absence had caused. 

“I've told you Sherlock, it's not that easy. People can't just forget what happened, even when the facts all add up.” John said, “Just give them time.”

“It's been 2 months,” Sherlock said. 

“Yeah, well you were dead for nearly 3 years, might need to give it a bit longer,” John said. The retort came out more harshly than John had intended. It didn't take the world's only consulting detective to deduce the reason. 

“You're still angry with me,” Sherlock said. 

“Well, all things considered, I feel like I'm allowed to be,” John said. He shoved his hands in his pockets and quickened his stride. Sherlock's longer legs allowed him to keep pace easily. 

“You moved back in, I assumed you were over this,” Sherlock said. 

“I didn't really have any choice when Mary tossed me out, did I?” John practically shouted. Stopping he ran his hand over his face in frustration before continuing. 

“Look, can we not do this right now, please?”

“I'm just trying to understand, John,” Sherlock said, frowning. 

“But you can't, you were gone and things got bad,” John took a deep breath, “and I can't really think about that without getting angry at you, okay?”

He started walking then and Sherlock fell into step beside him quietly. Things were still a bit strained between them since Sherlock's return. Mycroft had orchestrated their initial reunion on his brother's behalf. Inviting John to his house seemingly out of the blue, then presenting him with all the files and evidence of the dismantling of Moriarty's web. John had assumed it was meant to give him closure, until a familiar baritone called out to him and his world turned upside-down again. 

There had been copious amounts of swearing and shouting and Sherlock had sported a rather startling black eye for the next two weeks, but in the end, after John had time to calm down, they had begun to rebuild their friendship. Unfortunately, this had not been without some cost. 

“Do you blame me for what happened with Mary?” Sherlock asked curiously. 

“No, that was, well that one's on me,” John said, his voice quiet. 

Things with Mary had been deteriorating since Clara had become pregnant. Suddenly she no longer accepted that John was fine with not having children together. Whenever he got an update from Harry or Clara, Mary got quiet and wanted nothing to do with him the rest of the night. 

After Sherlock returned and John began spending more and more time away, helping his now not dead friend clear up all the mess his faked suicide had caused. It was no wonder Mary had felt that he was no longer invested in their relationship. John had tried to show her she was wrong, but that had all backfired rather spectacularly. 

Sherlock studied him briefly while John did his best to ignore the calculating eyes as they scanned him for every clue his outward appearance betrayed. A shrill noise interrupted the detective's observations as John fished his phone out of his pocket and checked the caller ID. His face fell. 

“St. Thomas A&E, I'd better take this,” John said quickly. Sherlock took this as a good time to have a quick smoke. He'd fallen back on some bad habits in his time away

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Mr. Watson?” a female voice asked. 

“Yes, this is John Watson.” 

“Mr. Watson, this is Nurse Palmer at St. Thomas. You are listed as an emergency contact for Ms. Clara Watson. I'm afraid she's had a bit of an accident and we've been unable to contact her partner. I was hoping you could come in and collect her so she can be released.”

“Clara?” John's mind reeled. Oh God, the baby. “Is Clara all right? Where's Harry?”

“She's fine Mr. Watson, just had a tumble and managed to sprain her wrist. The baby is safe, but we haven't been able to contact Harriet, and the doctor's would feel more comfortable if someone made sure she got home safely. Poor thing's had an upsetting day,” Nurse Palmer said. 

“Right, of course, I'll be there soon. Please tell Clara that I'm on my way,” John said. He rang off and turned to Sherlock who snubbed out the last of his cigarette and raised an arm to summon one of the circling cabs without comment. John considered it a small mercy.

Clara looked exhausted when John finally got to her. Her wrist was bandaged and held tight against her in a sling, her stomach swollen with child, as she rested in a chair in the waiting room. 

Sherlock had taken his own cab back to 221B so John was left on his own to deal with the hospital bureaucracy. 

After Clara repeatedly assured John that she was fine, all things considered, he went and flagged down the doctor who had treated her and got the full medical rundown on her injuries. He signed some papers and collected the script for some pregnancy safe pain medication before helping Clara outside. As soon as they were safely in the back of a cab and on their way, Clara finally broke down in tears.

“Oh John, I'm so sorry, I should have just told them I'd take myself home,” Clara said, she twisted to face him, but winced when the motion jostled her arm. 

“None of that now,” John said softly, he put his arm around his sister-in-law and pulled her gently against his side. “We'll stop by the chemist and get your script filled then I'm taking you home.”

Clara agreed and pressed against John as she drifted slowly between wakefulness and rest her hands making soothing circles over her swollen abdomen. 

When they finally arrived home Harry was waiting for them. 

Her eyes were wide with concern as she fussed over Clara and accosted John for information on how to care for her injured partner. Clara asked Harry where she had been and why she wasn't at work when the A&E nurse called. Harry stammered something about going out with some of the lads from work to watch the game and not hearing her phone. It was a perfectly reasonable excuse, and yet John had heard enough like it in the past to be skeptical. 

John caught the pained look in Clara's eyes as she accepted Harry's excuse, but didn't feel like it was his place to question his sister further. Still, it didn't take Sherlock Holmes to realize that Harriet was lying through her teeth. 

By the time John finally managed to make it back home it was already getting dark. Opening the door he could hear Sherlock talking back to the telly from the top of the stairs. Sherlock didn't even look up when John entered the flat.

“Tea?” John called out to his flatmate. 

“Of course,” Sherlock replied quickly, before turning his attention back to dressing down the character on whatever show he'd stumbled upon this evening. John was silently amused by Sherlock's ability to keep up with the plot-lines of numerous shows despite not actually watching most of them more than once a month or so. 

He put the kettle on and went to put his jacket up. 

“Your sister is drinking again,” Sherlock noted, still not looking up. 

“She looked sober enough when I brought Clara home,” John said with a shrug as he slumped down next to Sherlock on the sofa. John pretended to watch the program for a few minutes, but eventually he couldn't ignored the fixed look Sherlock was giving him and glanced over catching the man's eyes. 

“This isn't the first time. Clara knows of course, but she's ignoring it for the sake of the baby,” Sherlock said, his cool blue eyes flickering over John quickly. 

“For the sake of the baby I hope you're wrong,” John said looking away.

“You know I'm not.”

“Yeah, well maybe you should be every-so-often. Give the rest of us hope.” John said with a tired sigh. He rose to his feet and went back to rescue the kettle and pour the tea. 

“People are so tedious, John,” Sherlock said, “at least the ones on the telly shut up when I cut the power.”

“Well, on behalf of people everywhere I apologize for not properly entertaining your clearly superior mind,” John said. He offered Sherlock a cup which he promptly accepted. John sat back down next to his flatmate. 

The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up slightly at that. “Don't be so hard on yourself, my superior mind tends to find you quite entertaining.”

“Good thing I know better than to take that as a compliment,” John said. 

“We wouldn't want it going to your head,” Sherlock said, his tone mock seriousness. They both laughed at that and broke the tension that had been present since John returned home.

It was soothing and easy being back with Sherlock like this. John didn't have to work hard to realize that whatever the two of them had, it was essential to him. 

The program ended and Sherlock turned off the telly before stretching out on the sofa, ignoring John's protest at being used as a foot rest. 

“You could have asked me to move,” John said, but made no attempt to remove Sherlock's legs from where they rested on his thighs. 

“Then you would have complained about that,” Sherlock snorted, “I need to think, not debate social niceties.” 

“You realize it's only a debate if you can make a valid argument?” John asked, leaning over to the table to retrieve his book. If he was going to be trapped here he might as well relax a bit. 

“Wasting time is a valid argument,” Sherlock replied dryly. His eyes were closed as he rested his fingertips against each other in contemplation. 

“Not really. Considering you waste more time having to explain why you're acting so stroppy towards everyone,” John said. His arms rested comfortably on the tops of Sherlock's legs as he cracked open the book to find his place. 

“That's what I have you for,” Sherlock replied with a smug grin. 

John snorted at that then let the comfortable silence that followed overtake them. Things finally seemed to be getting back to normal.


	3. An unusual twist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John discovers a few things about Sherlock after a case and the duo have an unexpected visitor.

“Hold still and let me look at it,” John snapped as he grabbed for the consulting detective. He shoved the door to the flat shut roughly behind him as he entered the room. 

“I'm fine, go make some tea,” Sherlock replied, deftly moving away from the former army man and further into the sitting room of 221b. 

“Sherlock you're being ridiculous, just take your coat off and let me check you over,” John grabbed the taller man's arm trying not to just reach out and push him down. It had been hard enough ignoring the pained look on his friend's face for the entirety of the cab ride home, he didn't want to spend the night wondering how badly the man was hurt this time. 

“You're the one assaulting me, Doctor,” Sherlock said with a huff as he jerked his arm free.

“I mean it Sherlock, I need to make sure you didn't crack a rib when that bastard shoved you,” John demanded. He was using his patented 'Army Captain' voice so that his flatmate would know he meant business. John hadn't been close enough to see exactly how Sherlock's side had impacted with the skip in the alley, but he had heard it well enough. 

Sherlock gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes, but finally removed his coat. He took his time hanging it on the coat rack while John stood, arms crossed over his chest waiting. Sherlock turned towards him to protest again, but the words died in his throat at the look of concern on John's face. 

“Dammit Sherlock, you're bleeding,” John said, he crossed the distance between them swiftly and began untucking Sherlock's shirt. 

Sherlock had the decency to look surprised by the splash of blood seeping through his clothing. John lifted the hem of the shirt high enough to get a look at the small gash on the man's side. He tentatively ran his hand over the deep bruise that was already forming just over the lowest rib. Sherlock gave a sharp intake of breath and John let the shirt drop down again. 

“I'm going to run upstairs and get my bag okay, gotta clean that up and make sure you haven't got some deep tissue damage,” John said, already moving towards his room. 

“If you must,” Sherlock replied, his tone suggesting he was indifferent to the matter. Fortunately, John knew better. His mad flatmate might be seven shades of eccentric, but the man was no masochist. 

Sherlock began unbuttoning his shirt while John dashed upstairs. Grabbing for his small med bag he made his way back to Sherlock before the man could do anymore damage to himself. Back in the sitting room Sherlock stood waiting, his previously white shirt unbuttoned to reveal the smooth planes of his chest. 

“Go ahead and take that off so I don't have to hold it out of the way while I'm working,” John instructed as he set his bag down and began gathering some gauze.

There was a moment of hesitation before Sherlock complied, letting the shirt fall to the floor. He crossed his arms over his lithe frame in an almost self-conscious gesture his eyes falling to the floor. John frowned a bit, but decided not to mention his observations. 

“Alright, let's see how bad he got you,” John said. He rested a hand on Sherlock's hip to gently turn him more towards the nearby lamp for better lighting. 

“He didn't 'get me', he just took advantage of my balance being off after I jumped from the fire escape,” Sherlock said. 

“One thing at a time, yeah? We'll talk about the leaping off of things bit later,” John said. He cleaned the excess blood away and carefully disinfected the area. Sherlock watched him work intently. 

“You did good work catching him,” Sherlock said suddenly. John's eyes widened a bit at the semi compliment. “Shame he'll parole out before morning.”

“Dimmock's got the girlfriend as a witness, plus that bit you worked out with the chewing gum swap,” John said as he applied some plasters over the split flesh. 

“The girlfriend is going to utterly predictably change her mind about betraying the suspect and Dimmock's not going to be able to explain my deductions correctly enough to get a conviction,” Sherlock replied. 

“Well we did our part at least. Guess we'll have to call Mrs. Belmure and tell her that her son was the thief after all,” John said with a smirk. Sherlock moved to absently scratch at his shoulder. The movement caught John's particularly fixed attention and he paused his face drawn in a frown. Sherlock noticed and immediately recrossed his arms.

“Sherlock?” John asked softly. He didn't want to say something and be wrong, but if he had just seen what he thought he had then he needed to probe for more information. 

“Yes John,” Sherlock said, his features darkening. Never a good sign. 

“The needle marks on your arm, they aren't,” John paused, unsure how to proceed without starting an argument. 

“I said yes, John,” Sherlock snapped, “they aren't old, it's exactly what you think. Frankly I'm surprised that as a medical professional it's taken you this long to notice.”

“You're using again?” John's mind spun erratically. Caught between paralyzing fear and a resolved sense of duty to do whatever it would take to put an end to Sherlock's decent back down that particular path. Did Mycroft know? Bloody hell, of course he did, why hadn't he stepped in and put a stop to it? 

“I was, while I was away,” Sherlock said, quieter now. He seemed to be studying his fingernails with laser sharp intensity. While his face displayed a look of complete passivity John noticed the tense way he held his shoulders back. Sherlock was bracing himself for an argument. 

“Since you've been back?”

“Twice, the urge is more prevalent than I remembered,” Sherlock admitted. 

His eyes locked on John's searching him, daring him to protest, to argue, to threaten him with rehab. Pleading with him to understand. As much as he hated it, John did understand. Sherlock's depression was nearly unmanageable in the best circumstances. The consulting detective didn't talk much about his time away, hunting down Moriarty's network, but John knew it had been physically and mentally draining on the younger man. 

“Do you have anymore in the flat?” John asked steadily. He willed himself to take slow, deep breaths and remain as calm as possible so as not to set Sherlock off on a defensive tirade. 

“No, I'm. Not since you moved back. I know how adamantly you disapprove,” Sherlock said. 

John nodded and finished dressing the wound, gently prodding at the surrounding area before giving Sherlock's shoulder a soft pat. “There you go, all set now.” Sherlock let out a soft huff of air. Possibly relieved that John was letting the conversation drop so easily. Of course he could just have been all too glad to be finished with the business of holding still while John tended to him. The doctor wasn't quite sure which his friend found more distasteful. 

“This case was barely a 5 and a half. Why must the criminal classes be so dull lately?” Sherlock complained. He swept across the sitting area and into his room to collect a fresh shirt and his dressing gown. The room wasn't cold, but John supposed he didn't want to draw any more attention to his abused arms. 

“Considering how things escalated the last time they got too 'interesting' I think I can handle dull for a while longer,” John said. 

He made his way to the kitchen to get some tea going. He'd expected Sherlock to continue whining, but the man reappeared in the sitting room and plopped down on the sofa. He attempted to pull his legs up to his chest, but seemed to think better of it when the motion pulled at his plasters. With a resigned sigh he lay on his back instead. 

John collected an icepack, essential equipment for life with a mad scientist, and walked up to gently press it against Sherlock's side. The detective grunted at the intrusion, but dropped a hand to hold the pack in place, his fingers brushing the doctor's lightly. 

The younger man's face was pulled in discomfort and John was surprised to realize that a part of him wanted to soothe the scowl away. Admittedly, that in of itself wasn't much of a surprise, he was a doctor after all, helping people was part of the job. However, the sudden desire to run a hand across Sherlock's cheek and smooth the wrinkles away from his otherwise flawless features, well that was unexpected.

Fortunately the kettle required his attention before John could wonder where that desire had manifested from or be foolish enough to act on it. He busied himself with the tea and went to the loo to grab some paracetamol for Sherlock. 

He set both down on the table in front of the sofa then turned to go back to the kitchen. 

“Guess I'm not up for going out, did you want to do takeaway tonight?” Sherlock asked.

“Are you actually going to eat some if I order?” John asked. 

“Only if it's Thai,” Sherlock said with a quick glance to check the doctor's reaction. 

John just chuckled and went to dig out one of the menus they kept in a kitchen drawer. Satisfied Sherlock turned on the telly while John rang the Thai place. 

Dinner sorted, John went to join Sherlock on the sofa. 

“Budge up.”

“Sit somewhere else, I'm comfortable,” Sherlock replied dryly. 

“And a shite liar, you look bloody miserable. Need a fresh icepack?”

“No.” Sherlock said. 

“Then budge up, I've had a long day as well,” John said giving the detective's shoulder a playful shove. 

Sherlock relented, sitting up stiffly. John slipped into the newly vacated space and turned his attention to the telly only to have his lap suddenly full of Sherlock when the man promptly lay back down. 

“You're impossible, you know that?” John said with a startled laughed. 

“I thought doctor's were supposed to be compassionate,” Sherlock complained, “I'm injured and need to rest, hold still and stop disturbing me.”

He turned his head slightly so he could watch telly while they waited. Feeling a bit self-conscious, John eventually gave up and rested his arm on top of his friend's chest, feeling the slight rise and fall with the detective's breathing. 

It occurred to John that it had been months since he'd been this close to anyone. He and Mary had cuddled during the beginning of their courtship, but that had tapered off to nothing after they started living together, much to his dismay. He'd never admit it aloud, but John Watson enjoyed the closeness cuddling afforded. 

He doubted that Sherlock had even considered the implications of resting his head on John's lap, the man could be perfectly clueless when it came to pesky social cues. While it was typically incredibly annoying and the root of the majority of their rows sometimes Sherlock's behavior was so naively innocent that John couldn't help but find it endearing, hell maybe even cute.

'Cute? Bloody hell, where did that come from?' John wondered. He turned his attention to the programme trying to keep his mind from wandering down that particular road again. Sherlock shifted a bit, trying to get more comfortable. Without thinking, John lifted his hand off the arm of the sofa and let his fingers brush soothingly through Sherlock's tangled hair. He realized his mistake when the man stiffened in surprise. 

“Christ Sherlock, sorry,” John mumbled with a blush. He dropped his hand back on the sofa quickly.  
Sherlock's body relaxed again and he glanced from the corner of his eye to check John's face before turning his head back to the screen. 

“It's fine, unexpected, but not unpleasant.”

“Yeah, well glad I didn't leave you feeling too molested,” John said, trying for humor. The joke fell on it's arse and both men continued pretending to be engrossed in the show a few minutes more. 

“You could continue doing that if you want,” Sherlock said, “I don't mind.”

“Very generous offer, but if I spend my evening stroking another bloke's hair people are going to get the wrong idea,” John said.

“What people might that be, John,” Sherlock asked, turning his head back to look up at the doctor.

“Come again?” John asked, frowning. 

“You're always concerned about what 'people' are going to think is going on between us. Even when we're alone in the flat you're worried about your sexuality being called into question by some all seeing populous. Why is that?” Sherlock asked. 

John wasn't sure if he was being tested or if the man was just absolutely clueless. 

“Well, I mean, I'm not, not that there would be anything wrong with it,” John stammered, his blush returning. He took a deep breath and started over.

“It's just. Doesn't it ever bother you? Even before people always assumed we were, uh, more than just friends. I mean, I guess that works out just fine for you what with you being married to your work and all, but how's a man supposed to find a date when everyone in London thinks he goes the other way?”

“You haven't dated since Mary,” Sherlock said, in his usual blunt tone. Fortunately, John knew better by now than to take it as an insult. Sometimes Sherlock couldn't help, but make observations the moment they popped into his mind.

“Been a bit preoccupied with work and keeping you out of the Met's hair,” John said with a smile.

“The women who asked you for directions last week flirted with you, but you didn't ask her out.”

“How do you know she was flirting with me?” John asked. Sherlock just gave him a knowing roll of his eyes, “Right, deductive genius, silly of me to forget.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock replied. They were both quiet another moment before he suddenly continued, “It doesn't bother me.”

“What's that?” John asked, suddenly confused about why Sherlock would care if some woman John didn't even remember until he'd been prompted had flirted with him or not. 

“When people assume we're together,” Sherlock replied, turning his attention back to the telly, “It doesn't bother me.”

“Oh,” John replied. He felt like his mind was crashing in on itself trying to figure out what Sherlock meant by that. Did he just not care at all what people thought or was he saying that he was actually fine with people thinking they were a couple and why did the idea that he was okay with it make John suddenly feel entirely too warm?

Before John could stumble upon an intelligent way of giving voice to his questions the door buzzer interrupted his thoughts. 

“That will be the takeaway, let me up so I can pay it,” John said quickly. Sherlock gave an annoyed huff at being moved, but sat up to allow the doctor to escape. 

John grabbed his wallet and headed down the stairs before Mrs. Hudson could be troubled. He pulled the heavy door open just at the person on the other side had given up the buzzer and started pounding on it. 

“Oi, no need for that,” John admonished as he pulled the door open, expecting to find and harried looking delivery boy. Instead he found himself face to face with a very distraught and clearly intoxicated Harry Watson.


	4. Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is a bad drunk and Sherlock sneaks in some cuddling.

“Bought time you answered, I was starting to worry I was at the wrong place,” Harry slurred. She was leaning against the door frame for much needed support and John could smell the alcohol wafting off of her clearly.

“Harry, what are you doing here?” John asked his brow drawing downwards in the look of annoyance he reserved for his sister's drunken antics. 

“Needed a place to kip for the night, figured you owe me since you ruined my marriage and all,” Harry said, louder than strictly necessary. She started trying to push her way into the entryway, but John blocked her path. 

“What are you on about?” John asked. He was confused, but also a bit insulted that Harry would try to make him at fault for her troubles. Not that it would be the first time.

“What do you think? Clara's tossed me out again, says she's done having to take care of me. Sound familiar?” Harry asked as she staggered forward crowding her brother. 

“Maybe if you didn't keep running off and getting pissed instead of taking care of your family you wouldn't keep being told that Harry,” John said. He stood his ground, gripping tightly to the doorframe. 

Whatever insult Harry was preparing was cut short as Mrs. Hudson's door popped open and the woman poked her head out. 

“Everything all right then John? Are you and your lady friend there having a domestic?”

“No, sorry Mrs. Hudson, this is my sister Harry,” John said with a blush, before turning back to Harry, “She was just leaving.”

“That's real good Johnny, just toss me out on the street like that bitch I married,” Harry yelled, giving the door a hard shove.

John glared at her before pulling the door open hard and almost sending her sprawling to the floor. 

“Shut up and get up stairs. You can sleep it off tonight and find someplace else to be in the morning,” John snapped. 

“Bout fucking time, it's freezing out here,” Harry said, shoving past him and trudging up the steps. 

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Hudson muttered, ducking back into her flat and pulling the door shut tightly. 

John took a deep breath and was about to shut the door when the takeaway delivery finally showed up. He paid for the food tensely before making his way slowly back up to the flat. He could just make out the sound of Harry's slurred insults. 

Sherlock was still lying on the sofa, eyes closed and fingers pressed together in his thinking pose. Harry had made straight for the kitchen and was currently rooting through the cabinets. 

“Haven't you got anything to drink?” She called out.

“No, and you've had plenty anyway,” John replied, “Sherlock, food's here.”

The detective glanced over at him from the sofa, but made no move to get up. John set the takeaway bag on the table in front of the sofa and went to get some plates and chase Harry off before she could upset any of Sherlock's experiments. 

“What the hell is that?” Harry said jerking away from a drawer like she'd been burned. 

“Don't disturb it, it needs to culture,” Sherlock called from the sitting room.

John walked swiftly beside his sister and shut the drawer, not bothering to check what Sherlock was growing in there. He'd learned that it was usually better not to get the details. 

“Did you want to eat something?” John asked and he brushed passed her to where they kept their tableware. 

“I told you, I want a drink,” Harry snapped. 

“Well we still haven't got anything so that's not on. You might as well eat something then we can try to round up a duvet and some pillows for you.” John knew from years of dealing with his sister's drinking that she wanted nothing more than to get him worked up. Denying her that was one of his best coping mechanisms. 

She glared at him, which might have been a bit more intimidating if she didn't look ready to fall over, and stomped off to the sitting room. 

“Move out of the way you lazy git, you've got company.” Harry snapped at Sherlock's prone form monopolizing the sofa. The man didn't even bother to acknowledge her. John moved quickly to intercede.

“John, what the hell is wrong with this flatmate of yours? Doesn't he have any manners?” Harry said, towering over where Sherlock was still lying. 

“He lives here Harry, you don't. Take one of the chairs if you want to sit,” John said as he began unpacking the food onto the plates. 

“I'm fucking tired and I want to sleep, he can sit in a damn chair,” Harry continued ranting. 

“Such an enchanting creature, I can't imagine why Clara kicked her out,” Sherlock said calmly. 

“Sherlock, don't,” John said. He'd done his best to keep Sherlock and his sister as far apart as possible the entire time he'd known the younger man. The few times they had come together had proved disastrous and it appeared that tonight would be no exception. 

“Maybe I left her, did you ever think of that you wanker?” Harry struggled to get around the table stabbing the air with her finger as if that helped make her point. John saw the satisfied smirk at the corner of Sherlock's lips and knew exactly what was coming. 

“Impossible, your clothes have been worn for two days now, but prior to that they were ironed. Given your level of means you can't afford to have them professionally laundered. You're too lazy to do it yourself so Clara has clearly been caring for them and by extension you throughout her pregnancy. Bit much for her to take on while still working full time and being nearly to term. Not that you've bothered to notice, judging by the bags under your eyes and the shallow of your skin you've been drinking heavily late into the night for several months now. Clara confronted you, told you she didn't want you in her child's life and asked you to leave. You spent another full day drinking at any pub that would tolerate you before coming here to force John into letting you spend the night even though you think he's to blame. Ridiculous, considering Clara's lack of interest in men and John's current apathy towards dating, but you've never really been known for your forethought,” Sherlock said without pausing for breath. 

John would have been impressed if he didn't suddenly find himself pulling his sister away from the sofa roughly while she swung her fists trying to reach his flatmate. 

“Bastard! You're full of shit. Why couldn't you have stayed dead?” Harry howled as John pushed her towards the stairs. 

“Harry, enough!”

“Are you going to let him talk to me like that? That poncy little prick?”

“Was he wrong?” John asked. 

“Piss off!” Harry said struggling to push her way back in the room. Luckily John was solidly built and more than able to continue herding her upstairs to his room.

“Go upstairs and sleep it off Harry, I want you out of here in the morning.”

“He's got you so whipped John, no wonder Mary didn't stick around when he came back,” She snapped.

“Shut it,” John said forcing her through the door to his room.

“Why don't you just cut your dick off Johnny, not like you're using it anyway. Then maybe Clara would want you instead of me?”

John had to brace himself a moment to keep from rising to the bait that Harry was practically rubbing his nose in. He settled for shoving her roughly into the room and slamming the door. She kicked it twice, but made no move to try to come back out. 

Furious, John went back down to the sitting room. He couldn't seem to settle himself and paced back and forth manically. He longed to just grab his coat and take a long walk to settle his nerves, but he couldn't leave and run the risk of Harry coming back down to start another row with Sherlock. 

“John, come eat,” Sherlock's voice broke the silence. John stopped pacing and looked over to see Sherlock had sat up and finished plating the food and was motioning towards John's serving.

“Not really hungry anymore,” John said, but moved to slump down on the sofa next to his best friend. 

Sherlock handed over his plate anyway and John found himself tucking in, clearly his stomach wasn't impressed enough by the drama to be put off dinner. Sherlock picked over his own food, but as usual didn't eat all that much. 

When they had both finished, well when John had finished and Sherlock gave up pretending to be interested in eating, John packed up the leftovers and returned to the sitting room. 

“Are you planning to be up much longer? I've got an early shift in the morning and it looks like I'll be needing the sofa tonight.” John said with a tired sigh. 

“I'll be out here for a few more hours,” Sherlock said. John started to protest, but Sherlock cut him off, “Take my bed.”

“Where are you going to sleep? Are you even going to sleep tonight?” John asked frowning. 

“Maybe later, I have to reorganize something in my mind palace first,” Sherlock said stretching out to his full length. John couldn't help feeling he was being dismissed.

He slipped into the loo to brush his teeth and take care of other pre-bedtime business. He felt the tiniest tremor in his hand, but dismissed it as stress related and finished getting ready for sleep.

“Are you sure?” John asked hesitating at the door to Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock's bed certainly sounded better than having to kip on the sofa or one of the chairs, but what if the man wanted his bed back in the middle of the night?

“Go to sleep John, I'm busy,” Sherlock said. 

“Right, just wake me up if you change your mind I guess,” John said as he slipped into Sherlock's room and pushed the door shut behind him. 

It felt weird being in the detective's room without some ulterior motive, like rounding up laundry or checking for a drug stash. John frowned remembering Sherlock's earlier admission to having succumbed to drug use twice since he'd been back. Seems another search was in order, but that could wait for another night. 

He hesitated only a moment before taking off his trousers and folding them neatly over the wardrobe followed by his jumper and shirt. Finally he slipped under the duvet and let himself relax. One of the few good things to come out of his time in Afghanistan was his ability to fall asleep pretty much anywhere regardless of how wound up he was. You didn't get the chance to be picky about such things during a war. 

John closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. He could almost imagine that he could hear his flat mate's rhythmic breaths from the sitting room, but he knew that was unlikely. Still the thought comforted him and John quickly succumbed to sleep. 

He'd been out for a few hours when he heard the bedroom door open. Waking up easily to unexpected sounds was another by-product of his time in the service. 

He heard someone shift momentarily in the doorway before deciding to enter the room and shut the door behind them. John bit his lip, worried that Harry was coming down looking to apologize to him for being such an utter prat earlier. He really didn't want to deal with his sister or her hungover apologies until he'd had a proper nights rest. 

He was about to roll over and tell her as much when he felt someone tug the duvet back and slide into the bed behind him. Startled John jerked away only to have strong arms pull him back. 

“Go back to sleep,” a familiar baritone whispered. 

“Sherlock? What are you doing?” John asked, relaxing back into the warmth of the duvet now that the shock of having someone sneak into bed with him was wearing off. 

“Tired. Cold.”

“Do you want me to move to the sofa then?”

John tried to wiggle free, but Sherlock just pulled him closer. If he didn't know better John would have sworn the man was snuggling up behind him.

“The fire's gone out and the bed is large enough for us both. Just go back to sleep.”

“Your hands are so bloody cold,” John said, pressing his own over the slender fingers to warm them.

Sherlock just huffed and tucked his chin against John's back. John knew that any self respecting straight man would not go in for having his male flat mate cuddle him in bed, no matter how chilly his hands were. Still he was tired and fed up and having someone, even a male someone, holding him close like that felt comforting. He could allow himself this one indulgence, surely?

John had just convinced himself that the current situation was all fine when the sound of his mobile buzzing brought him back from the brink of sleep once more. Groaning he pulled free of Sherlock, who had warmed considerably by now and fumbled for his mobile. 

“Lo?” he mumbled.

“John?”

It took his sleep foggy brain a moment to process that he recognized the voice. Once he did he immediately roused himself fully sitting upright.

“Clara? Everything alright?”

“John, do you know where Harry is?”

“Yeah, sorry I should have called you. She turned up here earlier, sleeping it off I'm afraid.” John stood and excused himself from the room so as to not disturb the detective's infrequent rest.

“I've been ringing her all night. I'm on my way to the hospital now. It's time.”

“What now?” John asked, realizing what a stupid question it was even as he said it. 

“Can you come? Bring Harry if you can. I need someone here,” Clara sobbed. 

“Of course, love. Just stay calm and we'll meet you there,” John said quickly. He slid back into Sherlock's room and retrieved his clothes. 

“Thank you. I'll see you there.” Clara said before ringing off. 

Sherlock rolled over and squinted at John in the dim light filtering in from the sitting room. 

“I've got to go to the hospital, Clara's having the baby,” John explained. 

Sherlock just rolled back over, his breath leveling out once more. John knew he was lucky to have even gotten that much of a reaction and finished dressing before pulling the door shut and going to retrieve his sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is following along with this fic. I know it takes a bit of a leap of faith on the readers part to start following an unfinished story of a writer who isn't very well established, so I appreciate all the kudos and subscriptions I've gotten on this work. 
> 
> I still have a few rough chapters written and am working to add more as much as my hectic schedule will allow. Thanks for giving me the chance to share this idea with you.


	5. The Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is belligerent and Clara pays the price.

John realized he was woefully out of practice when it came to dragging his barely conscious sister out of bed. Once she realized what was happening Harry fought him every step of the way. He'd found her mobile stuffed under a pillow on the floor with five missed calls from Clara in the history. This only fueled his frustration. 

“Harry put your trainers on, the cab will be here in ten minutes,” John said.

“Then sod off and let me sleep for five more minutes,” Harry snapped. 

“Your wife is having a baby, right now. Get your lazy arse up!” John pulled the duvet away. 

“My wife is having your baby,” Harry sneered, shoving her head under the remaining pillow, “Maybe if you hurry they'll let you cut the cord and sign the birth certificate.”

“What are you on about?” John asked.

“I told you, she tossed me out,” Harry said, throwing the pillow at him. John dodged it easily. 

“She's been calling you all night. She wants you there.”

Harry sat up and glared at him solemnly, “No, she wants you there. You know what she said before she told me to leave? She said she was going to raise the baby herself. Said I wasn't fit to be a parent, but not to worry because she wouldn't cut you out of the baby's life. Wouldn't be fair to you.”

John sucked in a deep breath. He hadn't been expecting that. There had been a time when Clara broke up with Harry practically every weekend, but always took her back eventually. When they got back together after the divorce Clara had given Harry an ultimatum, stay sober or stay away. He guessed this time she'd really meant it. 

“Harry, I'm sorry.”

“Like hell you are. Ain't this just how it always works? I screw up and you get to play hero.”

“Harry, we don't have time, the cab will be here soon.”

“I'm not going,” she sniffed. She collapsed back down on the bed. 

Contrary to what everyone around him seemed to think, John was not made of infinite patience. He grabbed Harry's arm roughly and jerked her upright. 

“Listen to me Harriet Margaret Watson, you made this mess and maybe it's too late to fix it, but if you don't show up to the birth of your own child then there is no way in hell that Clara will ever forgive you and you know it,” John said. His voice was pure authority. Harry looked startled for a moment before she regained her petulant sneer. 

“Fine,” Harry growled, shoving him off. 

 

After the longest and most uncomfortable cab ride ever John approached the desk in labor and delivery and got the room number for his sister-in-law. Clara had just arrived and was still being settled in so Harry took a moment to slip into the ladies and make herself slightly more presentable and filled in some paperwork. 

Finally they were allowed to see Clara. She was hooked up to several monitors and looked paler than John had ever seen her. 

“You both came,” Clara said with a smile and a deep sigh. Harry shuffled nervously, clearly not sure what to do or say so John stepped forward and patted the woman's shoulder affectionately. 

“Of course we did, wouldn't miss this for the world. Right, Harry?”

Harry's eyes watered right up at the mention of her name. 

“Clara, I'm so sorry,” she sobbed rushing forward to hug her lover. 

“I know Harry. Let's just get through this, okay?”

Clara patted Harry's hand, but didn't move to return her embrace. John wondered about what Harry had told him earlier. Was Clara really planning to raise the child alone? He'd offer any help and support he was able of course, but he hated to see his sister losing everything, again.

“Yes, okay,” Harry sniffed. 

John glanced over at the one of the screens and frowned. He wasn't exactly versed in labor and delivery, but as a doctor he knew more than enough to find the readout concerning. 

“Have they given you anything for your blood pressure?” He asked. 

“I've been poked and prodded since I got here,” Clara said with a soft laugh. 

“Everything okay?” Harry asked. She knew John's concerned look, God knows it had been directed at her enough times. 

“Just lower than I'd expected,” John said. He moved around the bed to sneak a look at the chart. 

“Pays to have a doctor in the family,” Harry said, smiling at Clara. 

Clara just nodded and took a deep breath. 

“Contractions?” Harry asked, “Need me to count you through them?”

“No,” Clara frowned and sucked in some more air, “Just can't seem to get a good breath in.”

John was by her side immediately checking her pulse. He hit the call button.

“John? What's wrong?” Harry asked. Her eyes widened in panic as Clara began to struggle to breath. 

“Is everything all right?” A nurse asked popping her head into the room. 

“Get a doctor in here, she's having shortness of breath and possible hypotension,” John snapped.   
One of Clara's monitor's picked that moment to start beeping insistently. John knocked some machines out of the way and turned on an oxygen mask which he held over Clara's gasping mouth. 

Things happened quickly after that. A swarm of medical personnel took over the room and relieved John of his mask holding duties. The fetal monitor joined the one checking Clara's blood pressure in beeping frantically added even more chaos to the over-crowded room. 

“We're going to have to do an emergency caesarian,” the attending doctor called out, “get ready to move her.”

“What's happening?” Harry shrieked. 

John wanted to help, but he knew enough from his own A&E shifts to realize that the last thing the on call doctors would want would be him meddling. He pulled Harry out of the room as three more attendants rushed in to prepare Clara for surgery. 

“John, what's happening?” Harry sobbed. 

“I'm not sure,” John admitted numbly, “something is wrong so they're going to have to take the baby out.”

“Is she going to be okay?”

“It's fine, they know what they're doing,” John said. He wished he was as confident as he sounded. The doors swung open and Clara's gurney was wheeled away. Harry tried to give chase, but the nurses directed them back to the waiting room. 

John paced nervously awhile then went and bought them both coffees and paced some more while he sipped at his. Harry was on the phone with Clara's mum for a bit, promising to keep her updated with any news before she sat dejectedly in one of the uncomfortable chairs.

About one hour into their vigil John received a text from Sherlock notifying him that they were out of toast. John told him now was really not the time and preceded to ignore any further whining from his flatmate. The man was likely just bored. 

Finally, a nurse came and called them back to one of the private rooms. John's instincts went on full alert. They didn't pull you back here for good news. A doctor appeared, looking even younger than Sherlock, and began explaining that Clara had gone into full cardiac arrest during the caesarian. Harry began sobbing. John put his arm around her and urged the doctor to continue. They were able to deliver the baby, but Clara had begun hemorrhaging and fallen into a coma. 

“How did this happen? She was fit last time I saw her,” John asked. He tightened his grip on Harry who was actually trembling. 

“It looks like amniotic fluid embolism,” the doctor explained apologetically, “it's rare, but sometimes the amniotic fluid manages to enter the mother's blood stream and cause an allergic reaction. I'm very sorry.”

“Is that it then? Is she ever going to wake up?” Harry asked. 

“Again, I'm sorry, but it is unlikely she'll survive the night. I came to get you so you could say goodbye.”

Harry choked on a sob and buried her face in John's jumper. 

“Isn't there something more you can do?” John asked.

“I'm deeply sorry sir, by the time she got here her body had already entered the first phase.”

“Why didn't anyone catch this?” John demanded. 

“As I explained, the condition is quite rare. It occurs in only 1 in about 20,000 births. None of the doctors on shift tonight have ever even seen it before.”

“My fault, I shouldn't have left her alone,” Harry interrupted. 

“Hush love, don't think like that,” John said softly. 

“If you would come with me I'll take you to her,” the doctor said. 

“Yes, of course,” John said. He ushered Harry along down the corridor into the intensive care recovery room. Harry's eyes were glazed with tears and she moved stiffly as if trying to fight against herself. 

“Do you want me to come in with you?” John asked, when they arrived.

“No, I... This is between us,” Harry said softly.

“Okay,” John nodded, “I'll be down the hall if you need me.”

Harry pushed open the door and John caught a glimpse of what was left of his sister-in-law before the door swung shut again. The muffled sounds of Harry's distress seeped out into the hall and made John feel like he might suffocate in the misery. 

He wandered lost a bit before he found himself back in the maternity wing. The atmosphere here was so different, one of hope and excitement. John knew he didn't belong, but he clung to it anyway. He was making his way towards another waiting room when he passed the large window of the nursery and paused. With everything that had happened he hadn't even thought to ask about the baby.

Feelings of shame and trepidation threatened to overwhelm him as he scanned the identical bassinets trying to find the one with his surname written on it. He'd all but given up when a door at the far end of the nursery opened and another small bed was wheeled in. The bed was pushed under a UV lamp and the tiny body contained within was outfitted with some padded goggles before the light was turned on. Between the swaddling and the goggles, John couldn't make out much on the small figure, but the handwritten blue note on the end of the tiny bed told him all he needed to know. This was Clara's son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I didn't give any warnings, but John and Harry didn't get any either.


	6. Family obligations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry can't deal with all this right now, luckily John is there to step in. Clara's son finally gets a name.

Sherlock wasn't in when John finally arrived home. He tried to tell himself that he was glad that he could avoid the other man's scrutiny for a bit while he showered and got some fresh clothes before heading back to the hospital, but the truth was, sociopath or not, Sherlock was still his best friend and John wished he'd been home. 

When he finally made it back to the hospital, Clara had passed. Harry had been left alone to mourn her partner, while John saw to the task of calling Clara's mum, Millie, and telling her the bad news. The poor woman was beyond elderly and had lost her husband a year prior. Despite his years of delivering bad news as a doctor, John still felt horrible when it came to telling those left behind. 

Millie said she'd make arrangements for the funeral and rang off with a sob. John went and bought some coffee for himself and Harry then went to find his sister. 

Harry was sitting alone in the room they'd first seen Clara in. Clara had already been taken away, while Harry remained behind filling in paperwork. 

“You don't have to do all this now, it'll keep,” John said softly. He moved to take the pen from her hand, but Harry brushed him off.

“I need to get this done while I can,” Harry said with a shudder, “before it all feels too real.”

“Harry, I'm so sorry,” John started, but his sister cut him off with a glare. 

“Don't John,” he face softened, “please don't, not right now.”

“Millie said she'd arrange for the funeral. Said you should call when you got a chance.”

“Whatever she wants is fine, she'll know what's best.”

“Harry, don't do this,” John said frowning he knew this situation was dangerous at best, but he had no wish to see his sister utterly destroyed. 

“Do what?”

“Shut down, Clara wouldn't have wanted that.”

“You'd know better than I would,” Harry said bitterly. She jabbed the pen harder into the paper as she signed her name. 

“You don't mean that,” John said resting a hand on her shoulder. Harry gazed back at him with tears in her eyes.

“She said she'd leave me John, and now she has. There's nothing else left to do.” Harry pushed to her feet and turned to leave.

“That's not true, you've got a baby to think about,” John said. Harry paused, but didn't turn to face him.

“No John, you do,” Harry said, her voice hitching with a sob. She pushed her way quickly out the door and down the hall. 

Confused John glanced over the papers Harry had been working on. There at the top of the stack was  
a certificate of live birth, John saw his name listed as the baby's father. Oh bloody hell.

Harry had made it to the elevator before John could figure out which way she'd gone. Frantic he took the stairs down, brushing past orderly's going about their daily work. By the time he got to the main floor and out the front doors into the rush of daytime hospital foot traffic Harry was nowhere to be found. John slumped down on a bench and tried to get his mind to calm enough to function properly. His heart was pounding from his flight down the stairs and threatening a massive headache now that the stress was beginning to kick in. 

Clara was gone, her mum was far too old to take on the responsibility of a newborn, and Harry was off, well, being Harry. John felt sick at the thought of the drunken stupor his sister would drink herself into to kill the pain of losing so much in such a short amount of time. None of that empathy helped though, not when there was the very real issue of a small person who shared John's DNA and was suddenly an orphan. 

This wasn't supposed to happen, not now, not ever. Sure there had been a time when John had been keen on the idea of raising kids, but he wasn't a young man anymore and he could barely take care of his eccentric flatmate, how was he supposed to deal with an infant. Actually, perhaps moving in with Sherlock was decent preparation for the perils of raising a child, the man had petulant down to an art form. John caught himself smirking at the thought before reality came crashing down again like a wave of depression. 

He lived in a flatshare and hunted murderers for a living, well when he wasn't trying to put in enough hours at the clinic to pay his share of the bills. What was he going to do with a baby? Maybe Mrs. Hudson could look after him? No! What was he thinking, most of the habitable areas of 221B were full of Sherlock's experiments. He'd have to move. Where else could he afford to live? He couldn't take an infant to a bedsit. His hand shook for the first time since Sherlock had come returned. He closed his fist and tried to will it to steady itself. 

“John?” 

John's head whipped up and he locked eyes with Lestrade. The DI's face was drawn in concern as he approached the bench where John was quietly having his mental breakdown.

“Greg?” John asked, he quickly tried to compose himself, “didn't see you mate, what are you doing here?”

“One of the boys at the yard got himself banged up. I was coming by to check in. Are you here on a case? Everything alright?” The D.I. looked sincerely concerned and John remembered that they had been good friends at one time. Before the whole 'Sherlock is a fraud' fiasco. 

“No, not really. My sister-in-law just passed,” John said frowning. Greg dropped down onto the bench next to him.

“Sorry to hear that. How's your sister holding up?”

“Bout like usual. She put all the responsibility on me and Clara's mum and disappeared,” John said with a sad smile. 

“All the funeral stuff then? That's rough.”

“There's something else,” John said. He glanced at Lestrade quickly then looked away nervously. Maybe Harry was right, better to get it over with before it all felt real.

“John, what is it?” Greg asked. 

“She was pregnant Greg. I was the donor.”

“What happened to the baby?” Greg asked.

“He's okay, I think. I don't even know for sure,” John sighed and ran his hands over his face tiredly.

“It's all wrong Greg. That poor kid just lost his mum and Harry can't even take care of herself. All he's got left is me and, “ John bit his lip, the tremor in his hand starting up again, “It's all wrong.”

“John, mate, look at me,” Greg grabbed his arm to make sure he had the doctor's attention, “a kid could do a hell of a lot worse than to have someone like you looking out for him, alright? I'm a Copper I've seen loads of sad endings, this isn't one of them. You're a good bloke, John, you'll figure something out, alright?”

John took a deep breath and mentally scolded himself for nearly breaking down like this. Lestrade was right, he'd figure something out. He was a doctor and a soldier by God, he made his career dealing with worst case scenarios. 

“Yeah, thanks Greg, just a lot to process I guess.” John took a shuddering breath to calm himself while Lestrade pretended not to notice and instead patted John on the back. 

“Anytime mate, so you gonna take me up to see the little sprog?”

“What about the lad from the MET?”

“He'll keep a bit a I think,” Greg said with a warm smile. John smiled back as he stood and walked back to the hospital with Lestrade in tow. 

They were stationed outside the nursery window, Greg making faces at the first row of newborns, while John tried to spot where Clara's son had ended up, when a rather flustered looking nurse found them.

“Mr. Watson,” she called, a look of relief washing over her face, “Doctor Tommas asked me to find you. There's some things she'd like to discuss about William.”

“Who?” John asked, clearly confused. 

“Erm. Your son, sir,” she frowned. John blushed deeply. Of course he hadn't bothered to check the name on the birth certificate, he'd been too busy trying to catch up to Harry.

“Right, sorry. Everything's still a bit of a shock. I haven't even had a chance to really see him yet,” John said. The nurse's face became deeply sympathetic. She must have heard about what happened with Clara.

“Of course Mr. Watson, this all must be very difficult for you,” she said softly, tucking a stray strand of her brown hair behind her ear “if you could just come with me I'll take you to see your son and Dr. Tommas can fill you in on all the details.”

“Yes, right,” John said nodding, he turned to thank Greg for checking up on him and was surprised when the man pulled him into a tight embrace. 

“You need anything you call, alright?” Greg said before releasing the smaller man. John felt a slight blush on his cheek, surprised by the D.I.'s sudden concern.

“Yeah, I will. Thanks again Greg.”

John realized he really meant it. Sometimes it was nice to have a friend who was capable of offering comfort. He followed the nurse down the hall to one of the private visiting rooms. There bassinet set under another of those UV lights. The nurse excused herself to fetch Dr. Tommas. As soon as she was out of the room John pried the chart loose from the end of the tiny bed. 

“William Hamish Watson,” John read aloud. He peeked down at the sleeping form, his son, he reminded himself. He reached in carefully and ran his finger along the baby's tiny arm. William wiggled a moment then settled again. He had a pair of soft blue goggles protecting his eyes from the light and obscuring most of his small face. John could just make out a shock of black hair at the top of his tiny head. 

He was so lost in his examination of all the tiny appendages that he almost didn't notice the doctor enter the room. 

“Mr. Watson? I'm Dr. Tommas,” she said offering her hand. She had a slender build and long red hair pulled back in a ponytail. 

“Dr. Watson actually, it's nice to meet you,” John said shaking her hand. 

“Not a pediatrician I hope?”

“Nope, army surgeon,” John said. 

“Ah, good then. Nothing worse than pediatrician parents, always have to seek out a second opinion until they find one that matches their own.” 

John smiled warmly at the shared doctor humor, then bashfully handed over William's chart to her outstretched hand. 

“Guess you'll need this, then.”

“In a minute, first, have you had a chance to hold your son yet, Dr. Watson?”

“Um no, not with everything,” John admitted. He fidgeted nervously.

“Then it's about time, don't you think?” Dr. Tommas said. She stepped around turned off the lamp and swaddled the baby before holding him out to John. 

John couldn't remember the last time he'd held an infant, surely he had before, right? His normally steady surgeon's hands felt too bulky as he rested them against the small bundle in his arms holding the baby firmly against his chest. 

“They always so tiny?” John asked with a nervous chuckle as he shifted the weight of the baby in his arms.

“No worries, Dr. Watson, he's only going to get bigger,” Dr. Tommas said. 

John looked down at the baby, his son and smiled. William had his little eyes scrunched firmly closed, but even so John couldn't help, but think the boy was incredible. 

“He looks like his mum,” John said sadly. 

“A bit, but he's got your eyes though.”

“Yeah? Guess he's going to make me wait to see that. Probably put out that I took so long to come see him.”

“You're here now though,” Dr. Tommas replied.

“Yeah, it's not what I'd planned, but I guess it's not what he had planned either. We'll just have to sort this out together,” John said softly. He planted a kiss on his son's head and began to listen to Dr. Tommas tell him all that he'd missed in William's first day of life. Somewhere at the back of his mind he fretted over what he would tell Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, but for the moment all that mattered was the baby snuggled in his arms. His son.


	7. Telling Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John lets Sherlock in on his plan, things don't go the way he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reading over this I realized it probably should have been tacked onto the last chapter instead of standing on it's own since it's really just one scene. As such, here's an early update to get you all caught up to where I'd like you to be for the next chapter when things finally begin to build. Comments, kudos and subs always much appreciated.

Getting Mrs. Hudson on-board with John's insane plan had been almost impossibly easy. He went to see her immediately after arriving home and explained the whole situation in her flat over a cuppa and some biscuits. She hugged him excessively and told him that she even if she was still his “landlady and not his nanny,” she would be glad to help out anyway she could. Her acceptance of the scheme strengthened his resolve and he finally begged leave so he could go and tell Sherlock. 

Despite the relative quiet from upstairs, John suspected that Sherlock knew he was home. Sherlock seemed to have trouble noticing when John was gone, but he always noticed when he returned. The doctor wasn't sure why that was the case, but had long ago wrote it off as yet another of his flatmates quirks. 

Sherlock was dressed, for a change. Usually he milled around in his dressing gown all day unless he had a case on. He was standing in the middle of the sitting room holding the dagger that was usually driven into the mantelpiece when John pushed the door open. 

“John, can you come over here?” Sherlock asked, not even bothering to look up from his contemplation of the weapon. 

“Should I be worried?” John asked with a smile. Sherlock gave him a confused look, apparently unable to grasp the idea that typically you didn't wield knives in the middle of the sitting room and then ask someone to put themselves within arms reach. John just shook his head and pushed the door closed as he made his way towards his flatmate. 

Sherlock expertly flipped the knife in the air and caught it just as smoothly. He than presented the handle to John who reached up and took it from him carefully. To John's credit he only raised his eyebrow slightly at the exchange before awaiting further orders. 

“Make a diagonal slash, left to right, as high as you can comfortably manage against an opponent approximately half a meter shorter than myself,” Sherlock said. 

“Oh sure, slouch a bit for me,” John chuckled. 

“Please try to take this seriously, Doctor, an investigation depends on it,” Sherlock said, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Right, sorry. Like this?” John swiped at the air in front of the detective with the blade. It was a clumsy slice at best. 

“They trusted you to perform surgery with aim like that?” Sherlock asked dubiously. John rolled his eyes. 

“I'm not exactly practiced at wildly swinging daggers at people then, am I,” John asked. He made a firmer slice to Sherlock's specifications and the detective nodded approvingly. 

“Again, please.”

John complied several more times before Sherlock decided he'd collected the necessary data and took the dagger back, replanting it firmly in the mantle. 

“Need to call Lestrade with your findings?” John asked, watching the man settle himself in his armchair. 

“It's a cold case, it can wait,” Sherlock said dismissively, “what did you want to discuss?”

“Something in the way my shirt is tucked give me away?” John asked. Sherlock waved him off dismissively. 

“You always dawdle at Mrs. Hudson's flat when you want to avoid me. I haven't done anything particularly objectionable lately so something else is bothering you that you're worried about mentioning. What is it?”

John sighed softly, there was really no putting anything by Sherlock. He moved and sat in his chair facing the younger man, his hands resting in his lap. Sherlock remained sitting, legs crossed properly, his shoulders pulled back slightly making the buttons on his shirt strain just a bit more than strictly necessary. John made it a point not to notice, or at least not to admit to himself that he had. 

“Clara didn't make it through the birth,” John began. Sherlock just blinked, but said nothing. Ordinary people would have filled this pause with comforting platitudes, but John knew better than to expect Sherlock to do anything ordinary, so instead he continued. 

“Harry's back on the bottle, doesn't take you to figure that out,” John said, Sherlock nodded. Somehow John was surprised at not having been interrupted by Sherlock explaining how he'd known months ago because of the way Harry had missed a comma when commenting on John's blog or something similarly subtle. 

“So, that leaves the question of what to do about Clara's baby,” John continued, his eyes locking on Sherlock's pointedly. 

“You feel responsible for the welfare of the child I take it?” Sherlock asked. It could have sounded snarky, but John knew he was genuinely curious. 

“Well, technically he is my son, so,” John paused. 

“Biologically, but you'd had no intention of raising him as such, what changed?” Sherlock asked, leaning closer and observing John carefully, “Sentiment?”

“Yeah, maybe. That combined with a sense of obligation to keep the poor kid out of a government home. Not his fault one mum died and the other is too messed up to take care of him, is it?”

“There would be more suitable choices. Your current lifestyle isn't conducive to child rearing,” Sherlock said. 

“I'm aware,” John said, trying to keep the heat from his voice as he began to feel defensive. 

“Yet you would take him anyway? You want this responsibility?” Sherlock frowned. 

“Yes, I think I do,” John said crossing his arms.

“Interesting.”

“That all you have to say?”

“What else would I say? It's not my decision,” Sherlock said. He swept himself up and moved to the window, taking up his violin. He plucked out a few chords and made some quick adjustments. 

“I just wanted to make sure you'd be okay with this. It's going to mean some changes. I've already talked to Mrs. Hudson about renting out 221C,” John said, picking at some lint on the arm of the chair. Sherlock stopped warming up and turned back towards the doctor looking confused once more. 

“Why would you do that?”

“Well I can hardly keep an infant in this mess, can I?” John gestured at the stacks of books and files cluttering the room. 

“I could tidy up a bit, I suppose,” Sherlock said glancing around and determining what concessions he could make to his eccentric organization. 

“I appreciate that, but between the body parts, chemicals, and assorted debris down here I don't think it would be safe enough. Especially when Will starts getting around,” John explained. 

“Will?”

“Yeah, William Hamish Watson. Harry named him, I think after Clara's dad,” John explained. 

“How absurdly common,” Sherlock said with a huff. John frowned. 

“What would you have called him then? Mister fancy name?” 

Sherlock paused in consideration a moment before blurting out, “Sherringford,”

John barked with laughter, only attempting to restrain himself when he caught the disapproving glare from his flatmate. 

“Sorry, that just, God, does nobody in your family have a normal name?”

“Dull,” Sherlock replied turning back to his violin. 

“I wouldn't have to move right away, Will's gonna be at the hospital a bit longer anyway. He's got jaundice so they need to keep him under the lamps until that clears up. Then I was planning to just move him in upstairs with me until I could get 'C' fixed up enough to be livable.” John explained. 

“You can barely afford your part of the rent on this flat, how will you afford 'C' on your own,” Sherlock asked, his eyebrow arching delicately as he continued plucking at the strings.

“I worked the rent out with Mrs. Hudson. She hasn't been able to get anyone else to take the place the whole time we've been here so she's willing to make a steep discount for me to fix it up and move in. I'll even help you try to find a new flatmate to take over my share of this place,” John offered. 

“I do not require a 'new flatmate', you're not leaving,” Sherlock said abruptly. He set the violin down with an angry thump and glared at the doctor. John sighed, he'd anticipated some resistance on the man's part, but honestly he still underestimated how childish Sherlock could be.

“I can't bring a baby into this place, Sherlock,” John said, in his most reasonable and patient voice, “I'll just be downstairs instead of upstairs, I'll still help you on cases whenever I can.”

“It's not the same, you need to be here,” Sherlock said crossing his arms over himself. 

“You're right,” John said with a nod, “Things aren't going to be the same. I'm a father now, Sherlock. I'm going to have new responsibilities and priorities.”

“That's not acceptable, John,” Sherlock said. John was about to tell him to sod off when he caught a strange look in the man's eyes that he couldn't quite place. 

“Sherlock? What's wrong?”

“You're being unreasonable,” Sherlock said, his voice rising. John was taken completely off his guard. This wasn't Sherlock being surly, this was something else. Suddenly he knew where he'd seen that look before, Baskerville. Sherlock Holmes was afraid. The man in question began frantically pacing back and forth across the room in front the doctor. John stood to intercept him, but Sherlock pulled away.

“You came back here, you can't just leave again. It's not, not fair,” Sherlock said angrily and he rubbed at his forehead. 

“Sherlock, stop a moment will you? What are you on about?” John moved to block the taller man from crossing past him again. Sherlock stopped and locked eyes with him.

“You weren't here when I came back,” Sherlock said quietly. Whether it was meant as an accusation or a plea, John couldn't tell.

“I was at the hospital,” John replied. 

“No, not today. When I came back. I went away to save you all and when I got back you weren't here and everything was different,” Sherlock said. 

“I told you I couldn't stay here,” John said reaching forward to take Sherlock's arm in an attempt to ground the other man, “not with you dead, it was too much.”

“I wasn't dead.”

“Well, I didn't know that, did I? Molly knew, Mycroft knew, but me? No, I had to think you were dead.” John dropped Sherlock's arm and squared his shoulders defiantly. This was a point of contention between them. 

“It was to protect you,” Sherlock said his voice rising again. Tired of having to explain the same thing over and over. 

“Bollocks,” John snapped back, “you're a bloody genius, if anybody could have filled me in on the truth it would have been you, but you didn't and I thought you were dead. I mourned you Sherlock, for almost three years I mourned you and thought I'd failed you. Some days it got so bad that I thought about joining you, then you turn up like nothing happened and you have the nerve to be upset that things changed while you were away?”

John was shaking in anger, but Sherlock's look of contempt had quickly dissipated as the shorter man turned to leave the room.

“You thought about joining me?” Sherlock asked, causing John to stop abruptly and flex his hand carefully, checking for a tremor. 

“I told you things got bad,” John said, his anger deflating as he turned back to his friend, “Lestrade took to calling me every few days for the first couple of months just to make sure I was still alive.”

“I didn't know,” Sherlock said watching John carefully. 

“Well, you were a bit busy taking down an international crime syndicate and all,” John said with a shaky smile. 

“John, I'm not sorry for what I did,” Sherlock said, John opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock cut him off by pressing his hand gently to the side of John's cheek, “but I am sorry for what you went through because of it.”

John felt his face heat up at the unexpected contact mingled with the man's baritone words melting his resistance. He had been so angry with Sherlock when he'd first come back, so pissed off that his best friend had lied to him, betrayed him. Deep down though, John knew that if the tables had been turned and he'd been forced to jump to save Sherlock, he would have. In that moment, John knew that he still would.

“I'm not actually leaving you,” John insisted, “you're not going to get rid of me that easy, you mad tosser.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and gently rubbed his thumb ever-so softly against John's face as if memorizing the texture of the doctor's skin. John felt his blush move down to his neck when he caught himself leaning into the touch. Sherlock dropped his hand back to his side quickly as if suddenly remembering himself and fixed his gaze on John's. 

“I can move my experiments down to 221C, it will keep you and Mrs. Hudson from disturbing them every time you feel the need to meddle in the kitchen,” Sherlock said.

“That, that would be perfect actually. Might spike the rent up a bit,” John said biting his lip as he worried about how he was going to balance his already meager budget. 

“You'll just have to work harder at finding me more interesting cases then,” Sherlock said with a smug grin. He turned to the kitchen to begin making a mental catalog of what would need to be moved and what needed to remain until it had sufficient time to develop. 

“Sherlock,” John said, breaking the detective's contemplation of a dish of ear cartilage that he'd yet to find an experiment for, but was sure there was still reason to keep, “Thank you.”

“Of course, John.”


	8. A Night Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock becomes suddenly thoughtful, John becomes more confused.

John kept himself quite busy over the next week. Sherlock made good on his offer to begin moving the bulk of his experiments downstairs to 221C and Mrs. Hudson fussed about helping tidy up the rest of the flat whenever she could sneak in and do so. 

It took some effort, but John managed to get in touch with Harry and arrange to come by and get some of the things Clara had purchased for the baby. Harry looked terrible when he arrived. Clearly she'd given up any pretense of sobriety at this point. John tried to update her on Will's progress. The jaundice was nearly cleared up and he would be permitted to leave the hospital by the end of the week. Harry just pointed him at a small stack of boxes and told him to take whatever he needed before locking herself away in her bedroom again. 

John felt his anger rise momentarily at Harry's indifference before deciding that it wasn't worth the battle to try to make his sister care. Instead he shifted through the boxed baby items and began sorting what he would need to take care of his son. 

Lestrade was waiting outside next to his police car, having offered to give John a hand moving stuff. He arranged the boxes in the boot as John carried them out. It was mostly clothes and accessories, bottles, nappies, the whole bit. John suspected he'd still need to pick up a few things, at least a cot of some sort, but he was glad that Clara had seen to the rest. 

Will's stuff seemed to fill up John's tiny bedroom far more quickly than he had expected. Still he couldn't bring himself to move anything into the shared areas of the flat just yet. Sherlock was sulking a bit about having to rearrange his files and the sitting room was even more of a mess than usual because of his efforts. Instead John focused on making daily visits to check on William and putting in as many clinic hours as he could before he needed to take some time off to get the baby settled in.

When the time came for Clara's funeral John went alone. Harry was there of course, sitting next to Clara's Mum, but one look at her glazed eyes and John knew that she wasn't really present. He offered Clara's Mum his condolences and they exchanged information so she could keep up with her grandchild. She didn't ask why Harry wasn't taking the boy and John offered no explanation. Perhaps Harry's impatient fidgeting said enough. 

Returning home afterward was a relief and John let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when the cabbie let him off in front of 221B. He began working his tie loose as he made his way up the steps the the flat. Sherlock was in the sitting room skimming through a newspaper when John opened the door. 

“Did you get milk?” he asked, not bothering to look up. 

“I was at the funeral, Sherlock, not the shops,” John admonished tossing his tie over the back of his chair and heading toward the kitchen to put the kettle on. It was nearly time for supper, but John couldn't make himself care. He'd been a bit off his food the past few days and today didn't seem likely to be any different. 

“Oh,” Sherlock looked him over quickly, “we need milk then.”

“At least you noticed I was gone this time,” John said sourly. As he fixed his tea wondered idly how they always managed to be out of milk. It was practically a running joke between them since neither one would ever admit to using the last of the previous milk, they were perpetually out. 

When John returned to the sitting room he set his cup down and sighed deeply as the stress of the past week finally caught up to him. His bad shoulder had been acting up lately, but he was stubbornly refusing to acknowledge it. Sherlock was not so easily ignored however. 

“Have you re-injured yourself?”

John grunted as he sat down pressing his back against the chair, “Just sore.”

Sherlock let the paper fall to his lap and really looked at his flatmate for the first time since he'd arrived home. 

“You're tense,” he observed. 

“Well spotted,” John replied giving a mock salute with the tea cup before taking a sip. Sherlock seemed to consider this a moment before standing up in a quickly fluid movement that beguiled the man's height. 

“We should be going now,” Sherlock said, crossing the room quickly to retrieve his coat. 

“I think I'm in for the night actually,” John replied setting his tea aside and reaching for a book. He didn't actually feel up to reading whatever crime drama he'd selected for himself, but was counting on the pretense to put Sherlock off forcing him to tag along. 

“Don't be dense, John,” Sherlock said stiffly, “The barmaid is the culprit and I've already made dinner reservations for us.”

John rolled his eyes and dropped his book unceremoniously onto the floor. He was used to Sherlock ruining the ending of shows and novels for him, but it still rankled that he couldn't even find peace in something as mundane as reading in his own flat anymore.

“Give my regards to Angelo,” John said. He shifted through some discarded newspapers that Sherlock kept scattered over the floor and found one he hadn't been over yet. 

“As always, you guess rather than deducing. We're not going to Angelo's tonight, I've something else in mind,” Sherlock said. He was holding the door opened as if he expected John to just trudge along after him. Hell, he probably was expecting exactly that, not as if John had ever given him cause to think he wouldn't. But, after all the stress and worries of the past week and having to deal not only with his own mourning, but also his sister's unhealthy compulsions, John just wasn't having any of it.

“Not tonight Sherlock.”

The detective faltered a moment. Not expecting John to be difficult? Well, John decided, he couldn't worry about Sherlock's ego at the moment, he had quite enough on his plate, thank you very much. He folded the paper and loomed over an article about a traffic light ordinance as if it were a very pressing matter. Eventually, the silence from his typically outspoken flatmate got the better of him and John hazarded a glance in Sherlock's direction. 

He was still standing by the open door, but now he looked completely perplexed. As if John had just presented him with a puzzle that he didn't know how to begin to solve. It was very unlike Sherlock to not dive headfirst into a problem, especially one he didn't understand. He should be firing off rapid deductions about John's ridiculous emotional attachments and how they were causing him to be less receptive to perfectly sound, rational ideas, such as going for a bite. Instead Sherlock just looked, well a bit lost.

“What's the matter?” John asked, setting the paper aside. Sherlock realized his confusion had been noted and immediately shoved the door shut. 

“Nothing at all, why would something be the matter?”

“You looked a bit put out,” John replied, “I'm just not in the mood for going out right now, it's nothing. Are you disappointed?” 

Sherlock gave a haunty snort and stalked back to the sofa, tossing himself down with his coat still in place. John raised an eyebrow, but Sherlock just stretched out and turned away from him. John quickly ran through the conversation in his head trying to figure out what had just happened, since his flatmate was clearly not going to clue him in. 

Sherlock had told him they were going to dinner, typically this is his method of placating John. The detective rarely eats anything if left to his own devices and only actively seeks out food to keep John from complaining about him not eating. John frowned and pressed himself to remember Sherlock's exact words, Sherlock was always on him about not observing, there had to be a reason for his friend's mood to turn so suddenly. If only John could recall.

“Oh,” he said suddenly, “You actually made reservations somewhere? Somewhere not Angelo's?”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise from where his face was pressed into the back of the sofa. John's brain worked to process the implications. Sherlock, who doesn't care if or when he eats had phoned ahead to plan a meal. Likely had actually called ahead since most places wouldn't accept texted reservations. This clearly wasn't something he'd done for his own benefit, so it must have been for John's sake. Like an utter prat, John had completely shut him down. Suddenly the doctor felt guilty. 

“What time's the reservation?” John asked casually. 

“Half past,” Sherlock replied without looking up. 

“Alright, we'd better get going then.” 

Sherlock rolled back over to level a glare at John. “What you're trying to do, there's no need.”

Anyone else might have been fooled, but despite Sherlock's assertions to the contrary, John was no fool. 

“I'm only trying to get a meal in you, myself as well come to it,” John said. 

Sherlock's lips curled in a smirk and he pushed himself back up to standing. John smiled and tossed the paper back to the floor. 

“Let me go change into something,” John said gesturing at the dark suite and blue shirt he was still wearing from the funeral. He stood and made to remove the jacket, but Sherlock's hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Unnecessary, that color suits you,' Sherlock said quickly. He turned John towards the door and followed him down the stairs. John felt a faint blush creep across his cheeks at the unusual compliment, but said nothing. 

They hailed a cab and after Sherlock rapidly spouted off the address to the cabbie they were on their way. John didn't recognize the location, but figured it was better not to worry about it too much. They rode in silence the rest of the way. Sherlock fidgeting slightly while John just stared out the window as they made their way through London. 

Finally the cab stopped and let them off in front of some fancy restaurant John had never seen before. He shot Sherlock a questioning look, but the man ignored him and quickly paid the cab before turning and barging into the establishment. 

Sherlock gave his name and they were quickly lead away to a secluded table in the back of the excessively posh restaurant. John was suddenly glad that Sherlock hadn't let him change out of his suit, he felt under dressed enough without his tie. John glanced around warily taking in his surroundings, everything was dressed in richly coloured fabrics with a waterfall silently working in the center. Light, indistinguishable music played softly in the background, some piano piece John didn't recognize. Each table was spaced well away from the others to allow the occupants privacy. He reached beside the long taper candle on his own table for the menu, but gave it up as a bad idea when he realized it was written in French. 

“Sherlock?” he asked, hesitantly. The detective gave him a smug smile and made a brisk motion with his hand. 

The waiter arrived and Sherlock quickly gave their order, in perfectly accented French nonetheless, before handing away the barely glanced at menu. John was about to ask again what, exactly, was going on here, when another man came by and filled their wine glasses. Sherlock swirled his glass expertly and smelled it carefully before taking a sip. He nodded at the man who beamed with pleasure and excused himself. 

“Right,” John began carefully, eying his own glass, “So, this is a bit posh.”

“You don't like it?” Sherlock asked. His voice was neutral, but his posture gave away his concern. 

“It's nice,” John assured him quickly, “Just, not what I expected when you said we were going for a bite to eat.”

“Oh,” Sherlock paused, considering, “I wanted to try something.”

“So, this is for one of your experiments then?”

“No,” Sherlock replied flatly. John waited, but realized the younger man was not going to offer any further details. With a slight chuckle John picked up his own wine glass and took a sip. Far too poncey for his liking, but he smiled at Sherlock and that little reassurance seemed to put the detective more at ease. 

The waiter came back again with a small plate of some sort of appetizer. John tried a bite tentatively and found he rather liked whatever it was. Sherlock watched him closely before having a bit of the food himself. Hoping to break the awkward silence John asked questions about the dish and Sherlock's sudden fluency in French. The detective seemed to relax a bit as he spoke about his childhood visiting relatives in the French countryside. Sherlock rarely spoke of his past, and certainly never of fond memories so John found himself rather entertained by the idea of a young Sherlock causing mischief about his family's estate. 

Sherlock asked John about his own childhood, but changed the subject again when the doctor seemed distressed by the idea of reliving life in the Watson household. Instead they spoke of their travels and experiences in foreign lands. Sherlock was raptly attentive to John's service stories. At some point their main course arrived and both tucked in contently. John realized this was the most relaxed evening he'd had in quite some time and he told Sherlock as much. 

“So you're enjoying yourself then?” Sherlock asked carefully. 

“Yeah, very much actually. Guess I needed a night out more than I realized,” John said. He smiled warmly at Sherlock, “Thanks for setting it up.”

“Perhaps, we could go out again like this sometime,” Sherlock said slowly, his eyes darting to John's as if watching for a reaction.

“Well, maybe someplace a bit simpler, yeah? But otherwise I'm keen,” John said with a chuckle. 

“Very well,” Sherlock said with a warm smile. 

After the main course Sherlock ordered them a desert, against John's weak protests. They both left the restaurant more full than intended, but quite content. 

“Alright,” John consented as they made their way out into the darkened streets again, “I'll admit it, you certainly know how to pick a restaurant.”

Sherlock seemed to consider him a moment before smiling down at him. “Home?”

John rubbed his abused stomach, “Could go for a bit of a walk first if you're game, haven't eaten that well in, hell maybe ever.”

Sherlock placed a hand on John's arm to direct him before releasing it again and falling into step beside the man. John felt a little warm and fuzzy from all the rich food and wine, so he wasn't entirely sure, but it seemed as if Sherlock was walking a bit closer to him than usual. 

“Guess you'll be looking for a new girlfriend soon then,” Sherlock said evenly. John nearly stumbled at the quickness with which the conversation had deviated from his thoughts. 

“Sorry, why's that?”

“When we met you asked if I had a girlfriend, I believe you implied it would be her duty to 'feed me up',” Sherlock said mockingly. 

“Right, not your area, the having a girlfriend or the eating apparently,” John replied giving his friend a nudge. 

They stepped off a kerb and slipped down an alley. John didn't bother trying to keep track of where they were, Sherlock had all of London mapped out in his mind, he'd get them home. 

“So will you be requiring another one soon? It feels like it's been awhile,” Sherlock said dryly. 

“I haven't sworn them off if that's what you're asking,” John said with a curious glance towards his friend, “but I don't exactly have the time or energy to invest in looking for someone right now.”

“They would have to find you then?” Sherlock asked. John frowned as he tried to figure out where Sherlock was going with this. Finally he gave it up as a bad job and just shook his head. 

“Why are you suddenly so interested in my relationships?” John asked. 

“Don't flatter yourself John, I was merely curious when I could expect to endure another of your women,” Sherlock replied. He turned sharply down another side street and John sighed and dodged around a bin to catch up. 

“Haven't you ever wanted to be with anyone?” John demanded as he fell back into step with the detective. 

“Why would I?” Sherlock asked as he continued to lead them into the night. 

“Because Sherlock, sometimes it's nice to have someone to rely on, someone who cares about you and wants you to be happy, someone you could love,” John snapped, “don't you ever want that?”

There was a beat where John felt certain he'd lost Sherlock to his massive intellect, that the detective was about to launch into a fit of deduction cutting to the very core of John's being and dissecting every ridiculous emotion he'd ever indulged in. 

“Maybe,” Sherlock said softly. John felt his anger deflate at the uncertainty of his friends words. Sherlock had never seemed uncertain of his stance on relationships in the past. 'Married' to the work as he was, there wasn't time for anyone or anything else. Or at least that was the impression John had been given of Sherlock's life before he'd moved into Baker Street. Not for the first time John wondered about what had happened to his friend while he'd been away dismantling Moriarty's network. It struck him that something seemed different about the Sherlock he had known and the one who had come back. 

“Same here,” John admitted. 

They walked in silence for a bit longer. John was starting to think that Sherlock was done with the whole messy 'relationship' conversation when his deep baritone finally broke the quiet again. 

“How do you know if you find them?”

“Come again?”

“Someone you could love? Did you love all your girlfriends? Is that how it works?” Sherlock stopped walking and turned to look at John closely as if his answer was the somehow the key to opening wherever the man was trying to get to with his line of questioning. 

“No Sherlock, that's not how it works. Not for me anyway,” John said.

“So you weren't in love with all of them?” Sherlock clarified, and why did John think he looked hopeful?

“Not really, thought I was a few times, but things never really worked out I guess.”

“It could be a false positive then?”

“A what? Oh right, science, yeah something like that. Sometimes you have to get to know someone better before you can be sure. I've heard that it makes more sense once you actually find the right person,” John said with a shrug. 

“I see,” Sherlock said and resumed his brisk walking pace. 

John tried to work out what had just happened, the whole evening had been confusing. Sherlock taking him to dinner and all the fancy food and wine, now they were talking about falling in love? John rubbed his forehead roughly, trying to clear his thoughts into some semblance of order, but none of this seemed to make sense. 

A few more well maneuvered turns and short cuts and John recognized his surroundings again. They had walked all the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this chapter. Character relationships and interactions are my favorite bits so I hope you all enjoy reading it.


	9. Brother's Keeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft comes for a visit. John is still left in the dark.

John was woken the next morning by the sound of Sherlock berating something downstairs. He was just about to write it off as another argument with the telly when he heard someone else answer in clipped tones. There weren't many people who bothered to talk back to Sherlock like that so it didn't exactly take the world's only consulting detective to figure out who had stopped by for an early visit. 

“Morning Mycroft,” John mumbled as he came down the stairs into the sitting room. He pulled on his striped jumper and made for the kitchen to get some coffee in before the day started. 

“Ah good, perhaps John would care to fill me in on the details,” Mycroft said. He was dressed sharply as always in his full suit with trusty brolly in hand. The very image of the British Government sat primly in John's armchair with his eyes locked on his brother's. Sherlock was still in pyjamas and his dressing gown, though the way his hair was still expertly styled indicated that he had either not slept or gotten up early enough to fix it prior to his brother's arrival. 

“Off you go Mycroft, your bakery will run out of the filled pastry's you pretend to have given up if you don't get there soon,” Sherlock snapped. 

“You're reaching brother dear, it's most unbecoming,” Mycroft said as he shifted to face John, “I understand congratulations are in order Dr. Watson.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock hissed in warning, his normally blue green eyes darkening with his mood. 

“Sherlock mentioned that did he?” John asked as he poured his coffee. 

“I daresay I'd be in quite a spot if I had to wait for my brother to inform me,” Mycroft said smiling ruefully at Sherlock. 

“Well, I don't know that I did anything worth congratulating, but I've a photo on my mobile if you're curious,” John said. 

“A photo?” Mycroft looked momentarily lost, a rare sight indeed, before regaining himself, “ah yes, the child. How very traditional of you.”

Sherlock's smug smile returned and he made sure to fix it's full force on his elder brother. 

“Well then, I guess you'd better leave, don't want the Russian's to notice you've left the helm,” Sherlock said standing swiftly to motion Mycroft towards the door. 

“It's not going to work Sherlock, you know I'm correct. There is no reason to be stubborn about it,” Mycroft insisted, but stood anyway and picked invisible lint from his bespoked trousers. 

“Your opinion has been noted Mycroft, now kindly sod off with it,” Sherlock said turning his back in a swirl of blue dressing gown as he walked briskly into his bedroom and shut the door firmly. 

“A pleasure as always, John,” Mycroft said as he turned to go, his demeanor suggesting that John had, as always, missed some key to the conversation and Mycroft was holding him personally responsible for his ineptitude. 

Frankly, John was used to the dismissive attitudes of both Holmes brothers by now and knew better than to pay it any mind or bother taking offense. He waited until he heard Mycroft purposefully step down every stair and let himself out onto Baker Street before moving over to reclaim his chair. He snagged a newspaper and settled in to drink his coffee. 

Sherlock came bustling out of his room a few minutes later, now fully dressed and moving with purpose as he snatched up his phone and tapped a few keys on his laptop. Finally he shut the computer and turned to John, “Are you very nearly done with that coffee?”

John glanced up over the mug as he took another slow sip and set it back on the table. 

“Nearly, why?”

“You've the day off from the clinic and we've got places to be, John,” Sherlock said with a dramatic roll of his eyes as if they had already discussed this and John was being incredibly dense. 

“Yes, I'm picking William up today, remember?”

“Honestly John, he's been there a week now, a few more hours will hardly matter. It's not like he has a concept of time yet,” Sherlock said as he slipped on his Belstaff. 

“Sherlock,” John said sternly. The detective wasn't good about sharing John's time as it was. The man had no respect for the hours John tried to keep at the clinic and wouldn't hesitate to keep him awake the full night through for a case.

“Oh fine then, I'll handle it myself,” Sherlock said with an indignant huff as he spun on his heel and stopped out of the flat, practically slamming the door behind him. Unlike Mycroft, Sherlock's stomping was hardly a dignified exit. John hoped all the noise hadn't disturbed Mrs. Hudson. 

He supposed he should be concerned about Sherlock's abrupt departure from his thoughtful behavior the night before, but well, this was pretty much how Sherlock normally behaved. If anything, John thought he ought to be concerned about last night. It had been a bit odd, but well, nice. Having Sherlock looking out for him and seeing that he had a nice evening had been very flattering. It had been a while since he'd just gone out with someone he could relax around. Not having to work overly hard to impress a date or feign interest in whatever match the telly was showing on his pub nights, well it was downright relaxing. 

It certainly didn't hurt that he was just comfortable with Sherlock. Despite the man's seemingly flighty mood swings, John trusted him implicitly. He never felt that at ease with anyone else. John pondered what it could mean that, given the choice, he preferred the company of his flatmate, his male flatmate, mind you, over all others. Eventually he decided that perhaps he'd had too much wine last night after all and it would be better not to think overly much on such things. 

He finished his coffee in peace then began tidying up what he could of the sitting room and kitchen. There were still some experiments hidden in the nooks and crannies of the cupboards, but William's supplies had also found a place there, so John was counting it as a victory. 

He had yet to find the budget for a proper crib, but he'd got a small sleeping basket at one of the secondhand shops that would suffice for the time being. All William's clothes occupied a drawer in his wardrobe upstairs and the rest of the bits of baby care equipment were stowed in his closet until they were needed. John checked and rechecked everything again before finally deciding that he was as ready as he was likely to get. Grabbing his jacket he slipped off to go retrieve his son. 

The English weather was being typically dreary, overcast with spontaneous drizzle. John zipped his jacket and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets as he began walking. The plan was to head to the nearest tube station and then make his way to the hospital. Once he had everything sorted he would call for a cab with a baby seat to take him and William back to Baker Street. 

Of course it would have been quicker, and less wet, to catch a cab both ways, but John was growing increasingly aware of his meager budget now that the strain of fatherhood was making itself known. As such, he'd elected to put off any personal comforts he could do without to ensure he'd have enough to cover all the new essentials. The practicality of his decision, however, did not make the walk any more enjoyable. 

His hair was quite matted and beginning to drip after only a few blocks. This distraction coupled with his concern about missing the next tube and finding himself late to meet up with Dr. Tommas and go over any additional health concerns he might expect from William's jaundice, prevented John from noticing the sleek black sedan that had begun to follow him at the last crosswalk. 

He was just about to step off the kerb when his phone rang. John fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the device as it flashed Mycroft's name. Frowning John tapped to silence the phone only to have his path suddenly blocked by the automobile of the man in question. A sharply dressed driver hopped out and rushed around and held a door open for John. 

Briefly he considered ignoring the man and the car and just continuing on his way, until he heard Mycroft's voice call out, “Really Dr. Watson, do get in.”

With a resigned roll of his eyes John relented and slipped inside the backseat right next to the elder Holmes. The driver snapped the door shut and a moment later the car started moving again. 

“Your P.A. Off on holiday or something?” John asked as he ran a hand through his rain tousled hair to slick it back away from his face, “you don't usually bother to kidnap me yourself.”

Mycroft offered him a towel, which John silently accepted and patted himself off with while Mycroft said, “I was merely in the neighborhood and thought you might appreciate a ride. You're welcome to get back out in the rain if you prefer.”

John folded the towel and set it on the seat between them eyeing Mycroft suspiciously. 

“Very kind of you, now what did you really want?”

“Beg pardon?” Mycroft asked, adjusting his tie with a practiced indifference. 

“Come off it Mycroft, I'm not actually an idiot, despite what you and Sherlock seem inclined to believe. You came to ask him for something and he turned you down, now you figure you'll try to get it out of me. My getting close?”

“Hardly,” Mycroft said with a snort, as if the very idea of John being able to ascertain his intentions was absurd. 

“Right, well why don't we skip the exotic locales this time and you can just tell me what you want, I'll turn you down and then you can drop me at the tube so I can make my appointment with Will's doctor.”

“I must admit John, however unintentionally you have me at a slight disadvantage here. I had, with reasonable certainly, determined that I'd never be having this conversation with anyone, and yet here we are,” Mycroft said, his voice was slow, measured. John just blinked at him unwilling to admit that he was lost before the conversation had even properly begun. 

“As you've no doubt come to realize I'm very, protective, of my little brother,” Mycroft continued. John snorted in disgust causing the man to pause in his practiced speech. 

“Yeah, I'd almost forgotten how you nearly got him killed by giving his life story to a psychopath hell bent on his destruction. Amazing protective instinct right there,” John said, he crossed his arms over himself, both to signal his displeasure with the conversation and also because he was feeling a bit chilled after being out in the weather. 

“A mistake I will always regret, you can be sure,” Mycroft said softly. His eyes looked pained and John let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He'd half expected Mycroft to deny his responsibility in what had happened with Moriarty. His acceptance of the blame John had thrown in his face took some of the fight out of the shorter man. Some, but not all. 

“What do you want from me, Mycroft?” John asked, letting his hands fall down to rest on his thighs. 

“Just, my brother has never been particularly adapt at certain matters. I would hate for him to return to old habits as a means of coping,” Mycroft said watching John carefully. 

“Mycroft, what he actual hell are you on about now? Is Sherlock in some kind of trouble? He told me he'd used while he was away taking down Moriarty's network, but he said he was clean now. Do you think he's using on the sly because of something that happened while he was gone?” John asked quickly. He felt a nauseated pull in his stomach at the idea of Sherlock using again. With everything else going on it would be the worst possible time for his flatmate to require constant surveillance. 

Mycroft looked John over closely noting the strain in his neck and the questioning look of his eyes. 

“He truly hasn't said anything to you, has he?” Mycroft asked in a whisper as if he were afraid to say it too loudly and make it the truth. 

“Always the last to know it would seem,” John said with a frown, “so go ahead, what's he gotten himself into now?”

“I'm not sure it's my place to say,” Mycroft admitted sitting back with an almost revered look in his eyes. 

“You pull me off the street and scare the hell out of me making me think Sherlock's in trouble and now you suddenly don't think it's your place to tell me what's going on?” John asked jabbing a finger angrily in the British Government's direction. 

“I'm afraid I cannot John, he would never forgive such an intrusion,” Mycroft said, he almost sounded apologetic about it, which did nothing to quell John's rising irritation. 

“Right, nearly get him killed by Moriarty and that's fine, few months playing dead and all's forgiven, but tell me why you're worried he might go back to using drugs and that's where your moral compass draws the line. Beautiful,” John snapped. 

Mycroft was always so composed and confident, the man sitting beside John in the back of the black sedan suddenly had neither of those traits. 

“He won't forgive that either John, my actions lead to him losing two years of his life. If there was ever a chance at my redemption in Sherlock's eyes it died the day he learned about Moriarty's final puzzle.”

“At least you knew he was alive during those two years, you were there to help him,” John said angrily, his voice raising in the confines of the car. Hell, let the driver hear him, let everyone know the hell the Holmes' brothers had put him through. 

“That wasn't his choice. I heard rumors and managed to track him down. He dodged me at every turn until he sustained an injury and couldn't refuse my assistance. It wasn't an act of forgiveness, it was convenience,” Mycroft explained. For the second time since he'd got in the car John felt his anger falling at the misery clearly written on the face of the elder Holmes. It was, John realized, the closest he was likely to get to an apology from the man. 

“Well, thanks for that, at least,” John replied evenly. He turned at looked out the window. They had nearly arrived at the hospital by now, having bypassed the tube station entirely. The silence stretched on awkwardly as they pulled up to the kerb and the car stopped. 

“John,” Mycroft began, his voice carefully measured, “I know I have no right to ask, and you don't owe me an answer, but, you will continue to look out for him, regardless of what happens, won't you?”

John turned and looked Mycroft over as if judging the sincerity of the man's words. John knew the Holmes' brothers were both adapt actors, he'd seen Sherlock summon countless false emotions during cases over the years, but something in Mycroft's demeanor, combined with the uncertainty of his question left John at a loss for a biting retort. 

“Yeah, always,” he said finally as the driver opened the door and let him back out into the rain.


	10. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and William finally make it home. Everyone adores the new baby, maybe even Sherlock.

The car had pulled away and rejoined traffic before John could properly begin to wonder about the surreal conversation he'd just had with Mycroft. He made a mental note to ask Sherlock about it later as he pushed through the hospital doors and took the lift to the maternity ward. 

He'd gotten to be well known on the floor over the past week. All the shift nurses were extremely sympathetic towards him and doted on William all the more knowing the the poor lad had lost his Mum so early in life. John greeted the head nurse and she lead him to a small room to fill out William's discharge papers while his son was prepared to leave. 

Dr. Tommas came in shortly after the papers were done and another nurse finally brought a well swaddled William in and handed him off to his dad while the pediatrician went over all her last minute advice for the new father. 

“Remember John, if you have any questions you give me a ring. Otherwise we'll see you both at his first check-up” Dr Tommas said giving him a friendly pat on the arm not currently supporting the baby.

“You might regret that invitation as soon as I get him home and realize I have no idea what I'm doing,” John said with a smile. 

“Former army captain? I think you'll work it out,” she said returning the smile. 

After everything was sorted John finally put in a call to order a cab with a baby seat, another purchase he'd have to get around to eventually, if only to keep from having to constantly walk everywhere. The sky was still overcast, but the late afternoon was far warmer and the rain seemed to be keeping its distance for the moment. John and William waited outside, sitting on the very bench where John had found himself the day Harry had walked out on them both. 

William peeked out from his blankets at the world around him. Realizing the poor kid had spent the first week of his life stuck in the hospital John shifted him so that the baby could get a proper look around at the bustling London streets. 

Without intending to, John began giving William quick explanations of all the comings and goings of the people around them. Which ones were in a hurry because they were late, or dawdling because they had somewhere to be, but didn't particularly want to go. When he finally realized what he was doing John couldn't help, but laugh. It seemed Sherlock's observation skills were rubbing off on him more than he had realized. Finally the cab pulled up and took them home. 

John was a bit surprised to see Lestrade's police car parked out in front of the flat. He unfastened William and paid the cabbie. The lights on the panda were turned off, and it was parked properly so the D.I. wasn't just dropping by to collect Sherlock for a case, he planned to be here for a bit. 

Mycroft's bizarre half-warning floated briefly through John's mind and he suddenly found himself in a hurry to get upstairs. He could hear voices as he shut the door behind him and began climbing the stairs. 'Not a drugs bust, please not a drugs bust, ' John thought, holding his son close as he reached for the door to 221B and swung it open. 

“John, you're finally back. Surprise!” Molly said quickly as she stepped back to give him room to enter. 

“Oh, there he is, let me have a look at him, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said rising from the sofa where she had been chatting with Lestrade and rushing over to take William. 

“John, he's precious, oh just look at this little gentleman,” she cooed enthusiastically as she held the baby. Molly came up beside her and began babbling nonsense baby-talk at the boy. John glanced back at Lestrade who was sat down next to Mike Stamford and then finally noticed the balloons and bits of baby blue streamers decorating the flat. 

“We, having a party?” he asked. 

“Baby shower,” Molly corrected him. 

“Glad you're finally here Mate,” Greg called as he and Mike stood up and took turns shaking John's hand, “you can tell us where you want this thing.”

John looked over where Greg had indicated and spotted a rather large box tucked beside the coffee table, a large crib box. 

“Who, I mean where did that come from?” John asked, clearly flabbergasted. 

“Heard you were in the market for one, we all chipped in to help out,” Mike said with a grin. 

“Is it alright? We had no idea if you had a particular one in mind,” Molly said biting her lip nervously. 

“It's absolutely perfect, thank you all so much,” John said blushing slightly. He wasn't used to such generosity, especially when he couldn't even remember telling Mike or Molly about William. Greg must have mentioned it? 

“You boys go put that together and Molly and I will see to lunch,” Mrs. Hudson called cheerfully as she bounced William on her lap. 

“Alright then John, lead the way,” Greg said reaching to hoist up one side of the box. Mike moved to take the other leaving John to awkwardly guide them upstairs to his room. 

Fortunately John didn't have much furniture to move. His room was small and contained only a bed, desk and small wardrobe. All of his stuff had been shoved to one side already to accommodate the small dresser he'd picked up for William's things and to serve as a makeshift changing table. The men scooted the dresser down and began setting up the crib. Greg was surprisingly handy and between him and John, with Mike reading the directions, they made short work of the job. 

When they got downstairs William was resting on Molly's lap nursing a bottle while Mrs. Hudson set out some sandwich trays and drinks. Everyone tucked in and took turns passing the baby around. When William finally made his way back to his father's arms John was shocked to see that he'd been taken out of his hospital gown and dressed in a smart little babysuit with the RAMC emblem on the front. 

“We had to order it special,” Molly explained with a shy smile. 

“You thought of everything,” John grinned. 

“Looks just like his dad,” Greg said grabbing another sandwich. 

Eventually the party wound down and everyone began filing out. Molly was first to go, she had an early shift at the morgue. She squeezed John's arm and told him to give her a call if he ever needed a babysitter. Mike took off next, he invited John to bring the baby over to meet his wife and have some dinner once things settled down a bit. 

Lestrade was helping Mrs. Hudson get things tidied up while John changed William's nappy and got him ready for bit of sleep. John passed William off to Mrs. Hudson again and offered to walk Lestrade down to his car. 

“Greg, thanks again, for all this. I can't believe you even had time to put it together,” John said as he opened the door for the Detective Inspector. 

“Oi, not really my doing, but I'm glad you liked the crib,” Lestrade said with a grin.

“Mrs. Hudson then? I didn't even have a chance to tell Mike or Molly about all this,” John said gesturing upstairs. 

“Actually, Sherlock invited us. Said he'd heard people throw parties for this sort of thing and that you still needed a crib. Seems like there might be hope for him yet, eh?” Lestrade asked as he leaned back against the car.

“Wait, are you telling me that Sherlock Holmes put together a baby shower?” John asked. The idea was almost too ridiculous, next Lestrade would be inviting him to a tea party and insisting they wear fancy hats. 

“I didn't really believe it at first either,” Greg admitted, “not sure what happened to him while he was away, but he seems different since he got back.” He tilted his head carefully meeting John's eyes as if looking for confirmation there. 

The truth was that John had been doing all he could to ignore any difference in Sherlock's behavior. Really, anything that reminded him of the past two years was something John felt best left unexamined, but hearing Greg voice his observations somehow solidified John's own thoughts a bit more. 

“We don't really talk about what happened while he was gone,” John said quietly. 

Sherlock wasn't exactly the type to be reserved about boasting his achievements. The man didn't seem to have a modest bone in his whole body when it came to solving a case. Bringing about the utter destruction of a criminal empire must have been quite an undertaking, but Sherlock had taken one look at John when the doctor had finally asked and said that it wasn't important. That alone showed a marked difference in the man's behavior. 

“Probably for the best,” Greg said with a frown, “at any rate he seems pretty happy to be home. Well, as happy as he gets when there isn't a serial killer on the loose.”

They both grinned at that. 

“Thanks again mate,” John said. 

“Anytime, give me a call sometime when you can sneak off to the pub again. First round is on me, alright?” Lestrade called as he climbed in his car. He gave a quick wave and pulled away. 

John went back inside just as Mrs. Hudson was coming downstairs. 

“Might want to get back up there John, the little one is starting to fuss and I'm not sure Sherlock knows how to make up a bottle,” she called with a smile. John stood aside so she could pass. 

“Sherlock's home?” John asked, puzzled, “I didn't see him go in while I was talking to Greg.”

“I think he was down with his experiments, try and get him to eat some of the leftovers dear,” Mrs. Hudson called as she pushed open the door to her flat. John said he'd try and climbed back up to 221B. 

Sure enough Sherlock was standing in the middle of the sitting room flipping pages in one of John's medical texts, looking as if he'd been there all along. John could hear William making soft noises from his basket as he stirred. 

“You missed the party,” John said by way of greeting. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said quickly. He dropped the book with a thud and walked purposefully into the kitchen. 

“Lestrade said I have you to thank for setting that up,” John tried, hoping for more of a response as he followed Sherlock into the kitchen and started mixing a bottle. 

“It wasn't an outstanding inconvenience to me and you needed a crib,” Sherlock replied. He was turned away from John as he shifted around under the sink, poking at a impaction plate of green fuzz. 

“Well, be that as it may, it was rather thoughtful, so thank you,” John said as he shook the powdered formula into the bottle. He checked the temperature against his wrist as he made his way back to the sitting room. He almost missed the muffled, “you're welcome,” from under the sink. 

Once in the sitting room, John began getting things set up so he could sit on the sofa and feed his son. He carefully got everything he could conceivably need within reach of the coffee table before went to retrieve William, who was starting to sound rather annoyed by this point. 

John bent low to scoop the baby into his arms murmuring soft reassurances to the little one as he did. When he stood straight again Sherlock was watching him from doorway. The detective looked, uncertain, as if he was deciding whether to flee back downstairs or stand his ground. John realized he had no idea if Sherlock had ever even been in the same room as a child this young before. The thought that the detective might be dealing with something completely 'not his area,' made John smile. 

“Come on over and meet my son,” John said as he snuggled the boy against himself. 

“I looked him over while you were downstairs with Lestrade,” Sherlock said with a quick wave, but he made no move to leave the room. 

John walked over and sat himself down on the sofa, tucking William onto one arm carefully while he reached with his free hand for the bottle. Sherlock moved forward suddenly and scooped it up and placed it in John's outstretched hand before shifting himself down on the sofa next to John and the baby. 

From the corner of his eye John saw his flatmate watching intently as he began feeding his son. William sucked contently for a few minutes before pulling back to yawn. 

“Did you want to try feeding him?” John asked. 

“Why?” Sherlock replied, his eyes still locked on the tiny form in John's arms. 

“Just thought you might want to give it a go. Kinda relaxing,” John said. 

“I don't think I've ever held a baby before. If I have than I've deleted it,” Sherlock said. He leaned back uncertainly. 

“Not so hard, just support the head and keep him secure,” John said shifting slightly so his body was turned towards Sherlock's. 

“John,” Sherlock said with a frown. John couldn't tell if it was meant as a warning or a plea, but either way his mind was made up. 

“Here, hold out your arms and I'll hand him to you,” John said as he pushed himself up. Sherlock looked momentarily panicked, but did as he was told. 

John carefully set his son into the detective's arms and helped Sherlock get positioned correctly. William was a good sport about it all and only whimpered a bit until his bottle was returned to its rightful place. Once they were both settled William resumed drinking and Sherlock sat watching the baby in a sort of revered amazement. 

“There you go, you two will be best mates in no time,” John said with a smile as he sat back tiredly. 

“His grip strength is impressive relative to his size,” Sherlock remarked as he attempted to wiggle a finger that William had managed to grab hold of. 

“Yeah, he'll be up to all sorts of mischief in no time I expect,” John replied with a smile. 

They sat in a comfortable silence while William finished eating. Afterward John took the boy back to burp him while Sherlock studied the process in marked interest. Once that was accomplished John decided to tuck William away in his new crib. The baby was asleep before he even touched the mattress. Deciding that he could go for a small bite before he lay down himself, John slipped back down trying to avoid the stairs that creaked. 

Sherlock had apparently had a similar idea as he was in the process of raiding the fridge when John got back to the kitchen. They both grabbed a leftover sandwich and sat down at the table together. 

“Oh, I almost forgot. Mycroft gave me a ride today,” John said casually. 

“He didn't drag you off to the power plant again, did he?” Sherlock asked with a smirk. John snorted. 

“Not today, just said some odd stuff and told me to look out for you. Not going up against any other psychopaths that I should know about, are you?” John asked. 

“None come to mind. What sort of 'odd stuff' did my brother say?” Sherlock said calmly. John recognized the tone, Sherlock was prying for information, but why?

“Nothing that made much sense, not that that's unusual for Mycroft,” John said as he carefully took another bite, “seemed like he thought you might have told me something. When he found out you hadn't he said it wasn't his place.”

John set his sandwich down and watched his friend carefully for any sign of an impending lie or attempt to change the subject. Anything at all that would indicate that Sherlock knew exactly what Mycroft had been on about and was hiding something from him. 

“My brother meddles far too much. He should stick to politics,” Sherlock said finally. 

“You would tell me, right?” John asked. He forced himself to remain calm even as his mind swirled with all the possible outcomes of the discussion that they had both very pointedly not been having for months now. 

“Tell you what?” Sherlock asked, but it wasn't a question, not really. He was trying to see what John knew before he showed his own hand. 

“If there was something wrong, if you were in trouble, would you tell me?” John asked. The 'this time' was implied. 

“I... I'm not sure,” Sherlock admitted. He turned his attention to the half finished sandwich though he made no move to continue eating. 

“Sherlock, look at me,” John demanded. Grey eyes met blue and John waited for them to focus to make sure he had the man's full attention before he ordered, “you'll tell me, okay? No matter what, I deserve to know. I'll do whatever I can to help, you just have to promise you'll tell me.”

Sherlock sat silently for a moment as if considering. John pushed his plate away, his appetite gone sour at the uncertainly in the pit of his stomach. 

“What if it's not certain or something you want to know?” Sherlock asked finally. He looked up to meet John's gaze again, testing his resolve. John knew his friend well enough to know that it would be foolish to ask how bad it could be. Between Sherlock's history of substance abuse and penchant for infuriating murderers, things could go to hell amazingly fast. Even so, John couldn't allow the man to shield him from the truth. He didn't want to be left in the dark mourning alone again just because Sherlock didn't know he could trust him with anything. 

“Doesn't matter, you tell me,” John said evenly. 

Sherlock pushed back his chair and stood up quickly retreating from the room. 

“Sherlock!” John called after him. 

“I need to think,” Sherlock replied and went into his room shoving the door closed behind him. 

Bewildered, John eventually shook his head and stood as well. He cleaned up the table and stopped by the loo to prepare himself for bed. He heard the occasional muttering from behind Sherlock's door, but he couldn't make out any proper words. 

Finally John had no further excuse and climbed back up to his bedroom. He eased the door closed softly so as not to wake William and stripped down to his vest and pants before pulling the duvet back and easing his tired body into bed. 

He knew he'd only have a handful of hours rest before William would wake him needing to be fed or changed again, but even after such a long tiring day John found his mind keeping sleep just out of his reach. Sherlock's puzzling words playing over and over again instead.


	11. The talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock decides it's best to come clean with his flatmate.

“I'm starting to think this was a bad idea,” John said warily as Sherlock gently positioned him on the sofa. 

“Don't be ridiculous, I haven't even started yet,” Sherlock clipped. John heard him fiddling from behind with his phone, probably checking to make sure he had everything he needed. 

“Look, I appreciate the offer, but you really don't have to do this,” John said. He cocked his head to the side to glance back at his best friend. Sherlock gave a roll of his eyes as he set the phone aside. 

“You've been overly stressed for entirely too long. If I don't take some action your cognitive abilities, being what they are, could become compromised. That is unacceptable. Now, kindly still yourself,” Sherlock said with an air of impatience as his thin musician's fingers ran gently over John's exposed skin. 

John turned away again trying not to tense under Sherlock's clumsy ministrations. 

“Have you ever actually done this before? With another person I mean?” John asked. 

“No, but I think my above average understanding of anatomy will suffice in this instance, Doctor,” Sherlock said softly, John could actually hear the mocking smile in the man's voice. Somehow that did little to put him at ease. Still, John knew that if he didn't relax he would only make this more difficult on himself. 

It's not that John was overly self-conscience about his body. He was a decent looking bloke, thank you very much, kept himself up rather well after his service ended. Maybe a few extra biscuits here and there, but nothing racing all over London with his headcase flatmate couldn't take care of for him. 

Even still, when Sherlock had suggested that he could help John with this, well he'd been hesitant. He'd just put William down for a kip after the boy's lunch and truthfully John had been contemplating a little kip of his own when Sherlock had suddenly appeared in his doorway. 

The man made no mention of his suspicious behavior from the previous night and for the moment John was content to think that perhaps he was making mountains out of molehills, or whatever that ridiculous expression his mother had always used was. Perhaps the reason Sherlock hadn't told him anything was simply because there was nothing to tell. He should really know better by now than to let Mycroft goad him into action, John chided himself. 

John hissed suddenly as he was brought back to the present by Sherlock's fingers prodding an especially sensitive spot. 

“Sorry, still sore?” Sherlock asked gently. He worked the area slowly kneading the flesh. 

“Yeah, a bit,” John said, shaking his head slightly to focus on the here and now. 

Sherlock finally seemed to find a rhythm to what his hands were doing, tracing small circles, carefully relaxing the muscles underneath. 

“Oh!” John gasped. He turned his face into his arm and relaxed into Sherlock's fingers.   
“There?” Sherlock asked, working the spot again. 

“Yes, oh god, there,” John let out a shudder at the sensation. 

Sherlock attacked the knot with vigor smoothing the skin around the puckered flesh with his carefully honed fingers. He found working a person over this way was more like playing his violin than he had initially imagined. Just a matter of finding the correct place to apply his touch and then hearing the soft music he managed to create. He ignored the flutter in his chest in favor of trying to illicit another response from his doctor. 

He kept at it until he felt John grow pliant beneath him. Sherlock marveled at the feeling of the man dissolving under his touch. For his part, John had long since stopped grunting and gasping and moved on to a more relaxed, possibly unconscious, humming sound. 

“Still think this was a bad idea,” Sherlock teased, his soft baritone sending a slight shiver down John's spine as the detective finished massaging his back.

“Mmm no, that was clearly brilliant. Should have known,” John replied with a smile as he flopped bonelessly forward onto the sofa. Sherlock stood and went to the kitchen to put on the kettle. John would need some tea after all that. Taking advantage of the empty sofa John stretched out slowly. He couldn't remember the last time his body had felt this relaxed. 

Sherlock walked back over and stood hovering above him. John blinked up at him, “not sure I could move if I wanted to right now.”

“That's fine. How's the shoulder?” Sherlock asked. 

“Much better, but you're going to be in trouble when I can move again,” John said with a grin. 

“Oh really? You have an odd way of showing gratitude,” Sherlock replied crossing his arms. 

“All this time I've been moping around with my back in knots and you never thought to tell me you gave amazing massages? Been holding out on me with anything else? Next you'll be telling me that you have undiscovered culinary skills as well,” John said. He batted at Sherlock playfully before tucking his legs up to give the detective a place to sit. 

Sherlock took him up on the offer, turning himself so that he was facing his friend on the sofa. He crossed his leg over the other, the very image of casual primness. Sensing a change in the tone of the conversation John pushed himself up to sitting and leveled his gaze at Sherlock carefully. When the man didn't speak, seemingly having been pulled back into himself John bit his lip in trepidation. 

“There is something then? Something you're not telling me?” John prompted. The silence fell between them, no longer easy and free, now it made John's back threaten to tense up again. Just when John had begun to think he wasn't going to get an answer Sherlock breathed out a soft, “perhaps.”

“Either there is or there isn't,” John replied evenly. 

The kettle clicked off and Sherlock jumped to retrieve it, but John was faster and clamped a hand on the man's arm to prevent his escape. 

“Just, whatever it is, we'll deal with it okay? But, you need to tell me, Sherlock,” John said carefully. He leveled his gaze with his flatmate's and waited. John Watson could be a patient man, but even he had his limits. Sherlock knew this, knew it better perhaps than anyone. With a soft exhale he nodded and sat back down next to his one true friend and silently prayed to who or whatever might be listening that he wasn't about to lose him. 

“I'm not sure where to begin, this isn't- it's not my area,” Sherlock said, watching John carefully. 

“Not your area?”

“Whatever trouble you think I've gotten myself into John, I can assure you it's nothing of that sort. This isn't, it's not dangerous, not in the way you're thinking.”

John's brow furrowed as he leaned back trying to decipher what his friend was telling him. He knew Sherlock had given him a clue with the 'not my area' comment, but he couldn't piece together how it fit into whatever Mycroft had alluded to in the car the other day. Sherlock waited, willing John to make the connection himself, to save him from having to say out loud what he'd only ever admitted to himself from the safety of his mind palace. 

It's too much of a leap, Sherlock realized with a sigh. It wasn't fair to hold this against John, the man had been firm in his heterosexual nature from the beginning. He would be completely blindsided and confused, possibly revolted? No, at least not that he'd admit to, John was too kind for that, but certainly put-off. Well, it would certainly quash the curious stirrings he felt whenever he allowed himself to consider the possibility. Better to just be out with it, John would balk and 'let him down easy' then they could both get back to the work and pretend that this diversion had never happened. 

Determined to get this whole messy emotional business over and done with Sherlock took a deep breath and with a slight tilt of his head he opened his mouth to tell John the truth, only to find himself struck completely dumb. How do you put such a feeling into words without cheapening it? Perhaps this was why so many so-called poets stayed employed. Nothing he could bring to mind felt an adequate explanation for how he had begun to think of and feel about his friend, his source of light. 

“Is this a sentiment thing?” John asked. Sherlock's eyes widened a moment in shock, John had put it together, not all of it certainly, but he'd given a starting point. 

“Yes, sentiment,” Sherlock exclaimed, “that's precisely the problem. It seems I've allowed myself to become... compromised by sentiment.”

“Seriously?” 

Sherlock nodded and braced himself for the rejection. 

“So, you've been acting oddly and Mycroft is concerned because you, what, fancy someone?” John asked. 

“Please don't bring my brother up now,” Sherlock said, he dropped his head into his hands and looked rather put out. Sherlock Holmes did not 'fancy someone' why couldn't John just get it?

“Right, sorry, but what's wrong with finding out you care about someone? Isn't that a good thing?” John asked, he shifted back on the sofa, leaning away. Sherlock sat up again dropping his hands to his lap.

“I have no idea, it's not something I've experienced before. I find it,” Sherlock paused, considering, “distracting.”

“Well, yeah it can be,” John admitted, “especially at first, but once you figure things out and find a rhythm with the person it can be pretty nice.”

“I, don't foresee that happening,” Sherlock admitted. 

“Come on then, it can't be all that impossible, Not for Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. Have you tried telling them?” John asked with an encouraging smile. 

“Them? Isn't one bad enough?” Sherlock asked, his face contorted in abject horror at the thought of having to deal with these, emotions, multiplied over several people. 

“No, I just meant, 'them' as in the person who you're having compromising sentiment over,” John said, trying his best to translate such a mundane phase as 'women/man you want to get off with' into terminology Sherlock would be more familiar with. Perhaps he could make a series of blog entries on the topic, he mused. 

“Oh, you're afraid to be presumptuous and assign a gender. Really John, have you observed nothing about me in our time together?” Sherlock asked with a wry grin. 

“Honestly? I'd just decided you were asexual when you went and fell head over heals for The Woman, since then, no idea,” John admitted. Sherlock let out a huff and rolled his eyes, this felt more familiar, explaining to John all the key things he had missed. This was safe. 

“I never 'fell' for The Woman, she was an interesting case. Once the case was over so was my interest, as you well know,” Sherlock said. Somewhere downstairs the doorbell gave three quick buzzes. Too frantic for a client, delivery no doubt. They paused until they heard Mrs. Hudson's door open and the murmurs of polite conversation as reached them. 

“Look, it doesn't really matter,” John interjected when it looked as if Sherlock might launch into a full analysis of all the ways he had not fallen for Irene Addler, “I told you when we first met, it's all fine, really. So, have you told, whoever it is, that you're interested?”

“Yoohoo, boys are you in?” Mrs. Hudson called from the stairs as she began making her way up. 

John called out to her then turned back to his flatmate who seemed to be locked in place. Sherlock's face had gone pale and his eyes seemed unfocused as if he was a million miles away from here. This wasn't uncommon for him, but he didn't usually do it in the middle of a conversation.

“Sherlock?” John asked, a slight frown creasing his brow. Sherlock seemed to come back from wherever his mind had taken him. He blinked and glanced between the door that Mrs. Hudson was just about to enter through and John's look of concern. 

“I'm trying to right now,” Sherlock whispered. 

“Trying to?” John asked. Sherlock noted the exact instant when the final piece fell into place for the doctor, it was incidentally the same time that Mrs. Hudson pulled open the door and told them they had received a package.


	12. A Walk in the Park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock flees and John finally understands what's going on, somewhat

Sherlock had jumped to his feet as soon as Mrs. Hudson was through the door waving a box at him. John watched him uncomprehendingly for a moment as all the pieces fell into place. Sherlock was trying to tell him that he, no that couldn't be right. Sherlock didn't do emotions, sentiment, or relationships. He just wasn't wired that way, too busy with the work. Married to the work, he'd said and yet here he was telling John that it 'wasn't his area' and that he was 'compromised' and what the hell else was he supposed to make of that? Bits of conversation floated into John's brain as Sherlock hastily grabbed for his coat. 

“Yes, I ordered that Mrs. Hudson. Could you give it to John, it's for him” and “I've got to get over to Bart's to see about some eyes Molly is holding for me,” Sherlock said as he slipped into the coat in one smooth practiced motion and made for the door. 

“Sherlock?” John asked as he came back to himself and realized that the detective meant to just run off and leave him with his realization. Sherlock pretended not to hear him and slipped past a bewildered Mrs. Hudson and out of the flat. John hopped to his feet and followed quickly, calling out to his friend. 

“Sherlock! Wait.”

Sherlock was already down the stairs with his hand on the door when John came barreling after him. 

“Sherlock, where are you going?” John demanded. 

“As I told Mrs. Hudson, I'm going to Bart's. I could be awhile, don't feel the need to wait up,” Sherlock replied without bothering to turn around. 

“You can't just say, something like that and then take off,” John insisted, “isn't this something we should probably talk about?” Sherlock gave a dramatic sigh and spun quickly to face the doctor. 

“There is nothing further to discuss John. Due to my brother's insistent meddling you thought I was keeping something dangerous from you so I felt the need to set the record straight. It doesn't, change anything. I'd already resolved not to act on my, feelings as it would needlessly complicate our friendship and judging by your previous reactions to people's misconceptions of our relationship, make you uncomfortable,” Sherlock stated, and damn that last bit stung. 

John's mind flashed back to all the times Sherlock had hinted at John's current lack of any girlfriends, when the detective had outright asked him why he was so annoyed when people thought they were together, all that time Sherlock had been silently willing him to make the connections and John had missed every blasted one. Now his best friend thought, what exactly? That John was grossed out by the idea of another man having feelings for him? John's mind had already been dizzy with the realization that Sherlock could even have 'those' feelings for someone, the idea that his genius mind had somehow latched those feelings onto an ordinary, invalid army doctor with a psychosomatic limp was still processing. 

“Sherlock,” John said firmly, then stopped because he really had no idea what else he could say. Sherlock wouldn't look at him, he held himself as rigidly as when the yarders called him a freak and a psychopath, his whole body honed for rejection, dismissal. John's heart broke a bit at seeing that protective facade directed at him now, all because he'd been too wrapped up in his bloody sexuality to notice Sherlock struggling to understand emotions he'd not bothered to deal with the whole time John had known him. Hell, it was entirely possible that he'd never even acknowledged such emotions in himself before, and John hated himself for not even knowing that much. 

“It doesn't change anything, John,” Sherlock restated evenly, still refusing to lock eyes with the blonde, “I don't expect anything, I know that you don't...” He broke off here, unable to finish. Unable to say that he knew John didn't feel the same, because knowing it and saying it were different matters entirely and he'd rather deal with sorting out that distinction someplace secluded and away from the watchful eyes of his only friend. 

“It's fine,” John cut him off, “I told you before it was all fine. You just caught me off guard, but we'll figure it out, okay?”

“Can I go now?” Sherlock asked, he was trying to sound indifferent, but John caught the slight hitch that suggested the man was struggling and knew better than to push him. 

“Yeah, I'll be here when you get back,” John said firmly. It wasn't just a statement, it was a reassurance, a bloody declaration that this wouldn't be the end of their friendship. John might not know as much about Sherlock's past as he wished he did, but he knew the man didn't make friends easily and though he didn't like to advertise the fact, he'd always valued John's unwavering loyalty, even if he didn't fully understand it. Now that loyalty was being tested and John didn't hesitate to prove to Sherlock that he wasn't going anywhere. 

“Yes, thanks,” Sherlock said quietly as he slipped out onto the busy street. John let out a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. That probably could have gone better. Mrs. Hudson called to him from upstairs and John remembered that they had rather rudely abandoned her there. He quickly made his way up to the flat. 

“Is Sherlock okay? He seemed in a bit of a hurry,” Mrs. Hudson asked as John came back to the sitting room. 

“Yeah, just um, excited about eyeballs, you know how he gets,” John replied. 

“What about you dear, you seem a bit funny too? Were you boys having a row?” Mrs. Hudson asked, giving John a concerned and motherly look over. John realized he probably looked a bit shell shocked from the whole ordeal. 

“We're fine,” he insisted as he sank down onto his chair to collect himself. 

“Of course dear, you just sit there and I'll get you a cuppa,” Mrs. Hudson said with a smile as she made her way into the kitchen. John sighed and sat back, his eyes wandering over to the coffee table where the package Mrs. Hudson had brought up with her was sat waiting for him. Curious he stood and snagged it up and used the knife dug into the mantlepiece to slice it open. 

Mrs. Hudson came back in with a small tea tray and some biscuits and set them down before peeking over John's shoulder to look into the box. 

“Nothing dead I hope?” 

“No telling with Sherlock,” John said with a smile as he shifted packing paper out of the way. New friend for the skull perhaps?

John pulled out some dark fabric with buckles and clasps. He raised an eyebrow back at Mrs. Hudson in a silent question about what exactly he was holding. 

“Oh, look there, he got you a baby carrier for William. What a thoughtful boy our Sherlock is,” Mrs. Hudson beamed, likely thrilled most by the idea that it wasn't anything ghastly that she'd be forced to keep dusted. Fumbling deeper into the box John secured the manual and set back down to figure out the contraption. Bit overcomplicated in his opinion, but it would make it easier to get out and about without having to have his hands occupied by a baby seat. 

John had to admit, it was an exceedingly thoughtful gift. That knowledge caused another wave of regret at his poor handling of Sherlock's confession. It wasn't enough to just tell the man that they were fine, he'd have to find someway to show Sherlock that he was still his best friend and that he didn't need to worry about making John uncomfortable. Hell, John had been a part of more awkward breakups in his life than any one man should have to admit to, finding out that his friend, his 'male' friend, harbored more than friendly feelings for him barely registered on the radar of uncomfortable. 

Truth be told, once the initial shock had a chance to lessen John found himself feeling rather flattered. He wasn't a bad looking bloke, but he was fairly certain that Sherlock should have been out of his league in the appearance department. Probably lost some points for being an incorrigible wanker, John consented, but still the man was built like something out of Greek mythology. All sharp well-defined angles, haunty glares, and porcelain skin. 

John stopped himself there, because suddenly his mind was veering onto a path he wasn't sure he should be exploring with his elderly landlady peering over his shoulder. The baby carrier seemed to be rather top of the line, even had a hood that could be pulled up to protect the tyke from weather. The thought of Sherlock researching such a thing brought a smile to John's face. It was just so unpredictably thoughtful. He'd have to find a way to repay the man, and that line of thought brought another very sudden and unconscious idea to John's mind that he was certain a supposedly straight man shouldn't be having about his flatmate. 

Fortunately, the sounds of soft mewling from the upstairs bedroom interrupted his increasingly confusing thoughts. John hopped up and went to retrieve his son, who was quite put out at having to wake up without a bottle waiting for him. After a quick nappy change John headed back down to find that Mrs. Hudson, incredible woman that she is, had already prepared the bottle for him. 

They sat together while he fed the baby and talked of mundane things and drank tea. John very pointedly kept his mind focused on the task at hand. Once William had his fill, Mrs. Hudson suggested John try out the new carrier. 

It took a bit of fussing, but they managed to get him strapped in properly with William secured to his chest. Mrs. Hudson assured him that he looked like a proper father and sent them off while she picked up the tea things. John secured his coat and messenger bag of baby accessories and they were off. 

After briefly considering heading over to Bart's to look for Sherlock, John decided it would be better to give the man the space he clearly wanted for now. Instead he made his way to Regent's Park, figuring that he should familiarize himself with the nearest playgrounds. Bit early to thinking of his son sliding and climbing over the structures, but not like he had anywhere else to be this week. For his part, William seemed completely oblivious to all the hustle and bustle surrounding them and spent most of the trip dozing peacefully, lulled by the gentle jostling of John's natural gait. 

Finally, needing a bit of a rest, John sat down on a park bench and did some people watching. He noticed himself getting quite a few approving glances from the mums pushing prams along the path. Women liked a man who was good with kids, he reminded himself. He didn't mind the attention, but some curiously buried part of his mind kept seeking out other men to look at. 

It took John a moment to even realize he was doing it, and then the better part of half an hour to understand why. What about that one? Is he attractive? John blushed at the thought and immediately diverted his glance from the man jogging past. 

John had only ever dated women, but if he was brutally honest with himself he wasn't above looking at other blokes. He'd always wrote it off as just a natural appreciation for the human form, or checking out the competition. There was a time when he was younger and had thought nothing odd of it at all, then Harry had come out to their parents and suddenly who he noticed was a much bigger deal. 

Their parents had not been kind or understanding. Harry had a rebellious streak, always going against the grain and looking to stir up trouble and for the longest time the Watson's had assumed that her insistence that she was a lesbian was just her way of trying to embarrass them. 

Once night John had heard them fighting with Harry about her wanting to go on a date with another girl and why couldn't she just be 'normal' like her brother. He hadn't realized how horrible and damaging that remark truly was at the time. John had just been glad that he wasn't the one they were shouting abuse at for a change. 

It was one of many sources of contention between them over the years and Harry's decent into alcoholism had only furthered the divide. John did like women, that had never been a problem, it made the whole idea that he was entirely heterosexual easier to latch on to, but there were quiet nights when he was alone in his bed where he wondered if things might have turned out differently if he hadn't been so worried about his parent's rejecting him as they had his sister. 

Looking over some blokes at the park was enough to confirm that John still found the male form at least passably interesting if he gave himself permission to think that way. John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face tiredly noting the stubble he'd neglected to shave off that morning. This whole day was turning into a giant, confusing mess. 

He got back to his feet and turned for home. William would be due in for another bottle soon and the little babe didn't have much patience for such things as of yet. As he walked, John found himself scanning around the park to look over both men and women trying to determine not only if he even could find them both attractive based on purely physical attributes, but also if he honestly had a clear natural preference for one or the other. By the time he returned to Baker Street he was still completely undecided.


	13. Missed Communications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John put off dealing with things until they don't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Profound apologies for falling so behind on posting. Things got crazy and I had no time for writing. As a peace offering I've made this chapter longer than usual. I hope you enjoy it.

John attempted to wait up for his flatmate to return, but as the hours passed by uneventfully he finally wrote it off as a bad job and went to bed. He was just settling back in again after William's three in the morning feeding when he finally heard the sound of footsteps coming up from downstairs. He very briefly considered getting up again to talk to Sherlock, but he let his eyes shut to rest a moment and the next thing he knew there was hazy morning light streaming through his tiny bedroom window and Will was starting to kick up a fuss. 

He tended to his son before pulling on a robe and carrying the babe downstairs with him. He expected to find Sherlock curled up on the sofa or hunched over a newspaper at the kitchen table. Instead he was met with a seemingly empty flat. Curious, John glanced over to confirm that the door to Sherlock's room was firmly shut. Well, he had come in late, probably still sleeping. 

He and William were slowly developing a morning routine which he fell into contently. It was easier to have something mundane to occupy his mind and hands rather than driving himself half-mad with all the questions Sherlock's sudden admission had brought to the forefront of his mind. 

There was no denying that he had a strong emotional connection with the detective. You don't do the things John had for someone who was just a casual acquaintance, passing up dates, dropping your entire life, shooting a cabbie. He just wasn't sure if that deep-seated fondness could ever translate to anything romantic. Did Sherlock even want something romantic?

The thought brought John to a literal standstill until William made an insistent whining noise that brought his attention back to the task at hand. He got the boy fed, dressed and comfy so he could have a bit of toast and coffee. Once William was happily waving at the colorful ribbons that decorated his sleep basket in the sitting room, John sat down to breakfast. He scanned a discarded newspaper while he sipped at his coffee. No cases so far this week, just as well since he hadn't quite worked out how he was going to fit that in to his new father role. 

At one point he heard some faint shuffling coming from Sherlock's room and felt himself tense a bit as he tried to work out how to act. He need not have worried as Sherlock exited his room with barely a nod in his direction before locking himself away in the bathroom. John eventually heard the shower start up. If he intended to wait it could be awhile, Sherlock was meticulous about his bathing rituals. 

Sighing to himself, John dug up the list of daycare's located in reasonable proximity to either the flat or his clinic. He'd be back at work next week and he'd need to have someplace to take William during the day. Mrs. Hudson had offered to help out when he and Sherlock were called away suddenly on a case, but it would have been unreasonable to expect her to take the baby on full-time while John was at the clinic. 

He made a few calls and scowled as the list narrowed dramatically when he took his meager budget into consideration. He'd known money would be tight, but this was far closer than he was comfortable with. It had always been a balancing act, putting in enough hours at the locum to ensure a steady income while being readily available to assist Sherlock as the need arose. Private clients definitely paid the lion's share of their expenses, but when there were no cases coming in John's army pension and paychecks kept them afloat. 

John rubbed his eyes tiredly as he considered his options. He could always try to put in more hours at the clinic, but it was difficult to get them when he'd let Sarah down so often in the past. Would be nice if they could land a new case, but then he'd just have to miss more work. 

William began to grow tired of the rainbow ribbons and whimpered for John's attention. The shower was still running, though the hot water had to be long gone by now. John scooped up his son and took them both upstairs to dress and bundle up so they could head out. 

When he passed by the sitting room again on his way out the shower had finally turned off, but there was no sign of his flatmate. John just shook his head and buckled William into his carrier before hoisting up his baby bag and heading out. 

The day was spent frustratingly checking out the daycare's John had determined were within his price range, though just barely. Most places were either more rundown than John would have liked, or came with additional hidden fees he had not anticipated because of William's age. The ordeal was further hampered by having to stop and tend to the baby while in the middle of the city. 

When John finally returned home to 221B late that afternoon he was completely knackered. William wasn't faring much better. The loud streets and public transport have left him overwhelmed and fussy. The flat was empty when they arrived, and remained so for the rest of the evening. 

Feeling a bit lonely, John sent Sherlock a text asking where he was. The reply was slow coming, but the detective said he was at Bart's and that once again, the doctor shouldn't wait up for him. John found himself irrationally annoyed by his flatmate's continued absence, though he couldn't pinpoint why. 

Mrs. Hudson brought up some soup around supper time, she insisted she couldn't finish it herself. That was all the encouragement John needed. They talked about his abysmal luck at finding a daycare and she came up with a few he hadn't heard of that some of Mrs. Turner's tenets had good luck with. Eventually she declared it was getting late and headed back down to her flat to settle in for the night. 

That night John lay awake for much longer than was strictly necessary. He told himself that he was just anxious about all the changes. He was absolutely not staying up to all hours of the night with insomnia because he was worried about Sherlock. Around two in the morning he finally heard the downstairs door open and the light, but determined sound of the detective returning home. Only then did John finally find restful sleep. 

The rest of the week passed much the same way. Sherlock kept odd hours and always seemed to be heading out anytime John happened to catch him at home. When John inquired Sherlock said he was helping the Met with some minor things, but nothing that required his assistance. Two days later John finally called Lestrade to make sure Sherlock wasn't interfering too much without John to reign him in. 

The D.I. said he'd been working on some mundane investigations, but that Sherlock was helping Dimmock with some things in the meanwhile. He promised to give John a call if the detective threatened to cause too much trouble and they made plans to meet for drinks on Sunday night. 

While he was somewhat mollified by Lestrade's assurance, John still felt a bit put out by Sherlock's sudden avoidance. He considered that this standoffish behavior was how Sherlock treated most people he came in contact with, John had just never thought he'd fall into that category. 

By the time Sunday rolled around the two of them had barely said more than a few words to each other in passing all week. Frankly, John was feeling a bit exhausted from all his work getting William settled in so it was a relief to finally get out of the flat without an infant in tow and be able to look forward to a nice normal night at the pub. He was surprised to catch Sherlock digging through the bookshelf in the sitting room when he came downstairs Sunday night. 

Sherlock hastily grabbed a handful of books he'd been considering and began flipping through them trying to find whatever passage he needed. 

“You don't need to run off and hide, I'm going out with Lestrade tonight,” John said. He hadn't meant for the comment to sound quite so bitter, but he didn't attempt to soften it any. 

“Why would I 'run off and hide',” Sherlock asked, giving him a perplexed look as if John had just said something utterly stupid. 

“No idea, just seemed to be your new thing lately,” John replied. He crossed his arms daring Sherlock to deny the obvious accusation. Sherlock apparently didn't care to answer the challenge and instead just went back to skimming through the pages in front of him. There was a knock downstairs. John heard Mrs. Hudson greet someone.

“That will be Molly then,” John said, belatedly realizing that Sherlock probably didn't care. 

“Why is she here?” Sherlock asked, not bothering to look up for a response. 

“She's here to babysit, try not to say anything terrible to her,” John said as he went to open the door. 

“Don't worry I plan to be down in my lab most of the night,” Sherlock assured him. 

John let Molly in and showed her where all William's supplies were kept. The boy was napping upstairs at the moment, but would be due for a feeding shortly after John left. She greeted Sherlock and received a somewhat distracted acknowledgment in return. Deciding that at least for tonight he could do without worrying himself over Sherlock's lack of social graces, John excused himself and headed down to make his way to the tube station. 

The pub wasn't too awfully crowded. Nobody wanted to get too drunk before heading back to work in the morning. It was a nice relaxed atmosphere, just what John needed after the stress of the past week. Greg seemed to be of similar mind and the two found a table tucked back in the corner where they could watch the soccer match while they sipped their beers. Eventually, the conversation turned from what they'd both been up to, to what they hadn't. 

“It's been weird not seeing you at the yard this week,” Greg said. He watched John carefully as if he feared he was broaching a delicate subject. 

“Yeah, I guess since I've been trying to get Will settled in and there haven't been any big cases Sherlock's giving me some time off,” John replied. He figured the less said about the sudden rift between him and Sherlock the better. 

“Well, there's the Sanderson case, surprised he didn't have you show up to at least take a look. Kept complaining about Duffy's forensics work for days,” Greg said. 

“I thought you didn't have him working on anything? What's the Sanderson case?” John asked, setting his glass down to level a gaze at his friend. 

“It's one of Dimmock's,” Lestrade said with a shrug, “got high profile when Sherlock figured out that it was the result of a botched kidnapping and not a suicide like forensics thought. He's been trying to nail down the place where the bloke was kept before the killer dumped him in the Thames.”

“Oh,” John said, frowning down at his pint. So Sherlock had been working on a case this week. It had to be at least fairly interesting, maybe a 7.5 since he got to call out the new forensics lead's mistake. 

“Sorry John, thought Sherlock would've mentioned it. He's been bouncing between the Yard and Bart's all week. You had to know he was up to something,” Lestrade said. 

“Not really, we're kinda giving each other some space lately,” John admitted. He caught a concerned look in Lestrade's eyes. 

“He having a hard time dealing with the baby?” Greg asked. 

“It's not that,” John said carefully. Greg raised an eyebrow inquisitively and waited to see if the doctor would offer any further explanation. John looked at his friend and, God it would be nice to have someone to discuss this with. His head had been all over the place since Sherlock had told him that he had feelings for him. Mostly, John found himself caught between thinking about how to get things back to the way they had been before he knew how the detective felt, and wondering if, given enough time or perhaps the right circumstances, he could let himself feel the same in return.

He was saved from elaborating when Lestrade's mobile gave a loud buzz. The D.I. gave an apologetic shake of his head as he fished the phone out and answered it. John was just riding the feeling of relief at having dodged that bullet when Greg stiffened beside him.

“Wait, how long ago? He's there now? How bad?” Lestrade jumped to his feet nearly knocking the chair out behind him, “Yeah, I got John Watson with me, we're on our way.”

John snapped to attention when Lestrade said his name.

“What's happened?” he asked quickly, pushing to his feet and grabbing for his coat. 

“Sherlock found out where the guy who did Sanderson in was holed up and went to investigate. Dimmock got a text with the address and went to meet him. Turns out the guy had an accomplice that Sherlock wasn't expecting. Got the drop on him,” Lestrade said quickly as he ushered John out and down the street to his police car. 

“Is he okay?” John asked fumbling with the handle on the car. Greg reached over and popped the door open. 

“Idiot got a blow to the head for his trouble, might have a mild concussion, but he won't let the ambulance take him in to get it checked. Dimmock's holding him there under the guise of getting a statement until we show up. Didn't want to just send him home alone all tussed up like that,” Greg huffed as he turned the key and the ignition fired up. 

“Christ,” John mumbled, he ran his shaking hand over his face, “he never should have been there alone. Dammit, why didn't he call me?” 

“When we get there you can ask him, unless I kill him first,” Lestrade said. If he noticed John's trembling he didn't feel the need to mention it. 

Lestrade parked the car and lead the way through the police tape in front of an old run down building. Dimmock came up to meet them and he and Lestrade exchanged details. John couldn't focus, his eyes darted wildly around the officers and medics at work trying to catch sight of his friend. 

He didn't hear Greg say his name and jumped when the man put a hand on his arm to catch his attention. The D.I. let go quickly as John rounded on him. He must have looked more than a bit frantic to have garnered such a response. 

“Come on, he's inside,” Lestrade said. John nodded tersely and followed Dimmock and Lestrade into the house. There was a sitting room full of decrepit furnishings and the heady smell of mildew. A door lead downstairs to the heart of the scene where the forensics department was having a field day sampling and categorizing all the new evidence. 

John followed Lestrade, his eyes constantly darting around until at last he spotting a head of familiar black curls perched on a kitchen table.

“Sherlock.” John breathed and rushed forward pushing past Lestrade who had paused to make way for some of Dimmock's officers. 

“John?” Sherlock turned to face him and John felt his fear for his friend's well-being turn to white hot anger. 

“What the hell happened?” John demanded taking in the sight of his bruised and battered flatmate. The medic who was trying to check the detective over was pushed aside as John' reached up to turn Sherlock's head and get a better look at the laceration running along his temple. 

“I, miscalculated,” Sherlock said. 

“That's one way to put it, another is that he got conked on the head with the butt of a gun, lucky the bastard didn't shoot you,” Dimmock said as he rejoined them. 

“There was a gun?” John asked glaring at his flatmate. 

“Oh calm down John, it's not as if I could have known,” Sherlock said. 

“Of course you couldn't have bloody well known, that's why you don't go into these types of situations without backup,” John snapped, his voice carried louder than he'd meant for it to, but he found himself in a miasma of emotions, and fury was much easier to deal with than fear. 

“Perhaps we outta step outside for this,” Lestrade said, moving between them as if he feared John might lash out and smack Sherlock upside the head again. 

“I told you I'd be fine in a cab, there was no reason to call John and Lestrade off from their night out,” Sherlock said sullenly to Dimmock. 

The younger D.I. just rolled his eyes, “he's all yours Lestrade, good luck.”

Sherlock eased himself up, moving slow despite his insistence on being 'perfectly fine' and made for the door. The dark stain where blood from his head wound had fallen on his shirt drew John's eye and the doctor clenched his shaking fist reflexively. 

“You alright?” Greg asked, catching John's gaze and holding it until the shorter man took a controlled breath and nodded. 

“Yeah, I'll be fine, you mind getting us a cab. I want to check with the EMT and make sure he didn't find any signs of damage before we head out,” John said. Seeing that his friend had gone into doctor mode and wouldn't be dissuaded from this course of action Greg agreed and followed Sherlock outside. 

The cab ride home was tense. Neither man was willing to attempt conversation in the presence of the cabbie. Sherlock finally just lay his head back against the seat and shut his eyes. John wanted desperately to ask if he was feeling dizzy or disoriented to try to be of some use, but kept his mouth firmly closed for fear of what he might say instead. 

When they finally arrived home John paid the cab fare while Sherlock immediately made for the door. He at least didn't seem to be showing any signs of loss of balance or physical coordination since the incident. 

“Oh, you're both back,” Molly said cheerfully, before she got a better look at Sherlock's disheveled state and pulled a grimace. The detective ignored her and went into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. 

“Yeah, change of plans I guess. Will wasn't any trouble I hope?” John asked. 

“Not a bit, just put him down in his crib,” Molly said. She fixed John with a troubled smile. 

“Well, thanks again for looking after him I'll take a peek in on him before I set Sherlock to rights,” John said. Molly nodded made her way to the door. She put her hand on the knob then stopped and turned back to John frowning. 

“Would you mind walking me down? I'm not parked far.” She said. 

“Course not,” John said. He followed her downstairs and out onto Baker Street. True to her word, Molly's tiny car was pulled up to the kerb a few buildings over from theirs. 

“Sherlock's not,” Molly began hesitantly, “he's not in trouble again, is he?”

John's polite smile faltered immediately, “Why, what's wrong?”

“Oh, probably nothing. I'm sure I'm just worrying over something silly, like I do,” Molly said trying to wave him off dismissively, but only managing to look awkward and uncomfortable in the process. 

“Molly,” John said firmly. It was a reminder of what they had both gone through the last time Sherlock was 'in trouble' and how she owed it to him now to tell him things that she hadn't been able to before. Preferably prior to assisting in crazy fake suicide schemes. 

“It's really not a big deal John, I feel stupid bringing it up,” She began, but seeing the concern etched in the doctor's face she continued, “earlier tonight after you left, we got to talking, well I did most of the talking and he was just distracted, being Sherlock and all I didn't think much of it.”

“Yeah, he does that,” John said. 

“Then out of nowhere he, he apologizes to me. Said he didn't understand about me having a crush on him before, well he called it 'sentimental leanings', but that he did now and he was sorry for how he acted,” Molly searched John's face for clarification, “it's just, not the kind of thing he usually says, you know?”

John drew in a shaky breath and patted Molly's shoulder gently. 

“I think he's okay, just finding out that he's more like the rest of us than he realized,” John said with a sad smile. 

“I'm sorry I shouldn't have said anything, I had you worried,” Molly said biting her lip nervously. 

“No, I appreciate you telling me. You 'get' him better than most people, if you ever think something's off I want to know, okay? No matter how 'silly' it might seem,” John said. 

They shared a quick hug before Molly got into her car and drove off. John made his way quickly back inside and upstairs shaking off the chill from the night air. He bypassed the sitting room and slipped upstairs to check on William, who was sleeping peacefully. Grateful for that much John grabbed his medical kit and went back down to seek out his flatmate. 

Sherlock had changed into pyjamas and was sitting in his armchair, fingers poised against each other in his lap while he waited. John came in and walked over. He set his bag down and took his seat opposite his friend. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, a silent question at John's unusual deviation from insisting on tending to all the detectives injuries himself, immediately. 

“I think we need to talk,” John said slowly. 

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes as if this was the absolute most annoying lead in to a conversation he'd ever been subjected to and frankly did we even have to do this? John ignored the dramatic display and carried on. 

“I need to know what's going on, you know, with us,” John said with a quick flick of his hand in the space between them. 

“I'm sorry John, you'll have to be more specific with what you mean by 'us”,” Sherlock replied smoothly.

“Fine, we're supposed to be friends, colleagues even, but you've been constantly avoiding me all week and running into dangerous situations with no backup, hell, without even telling me we had a case,” John felt his anger rising so he took a deep breath to reign it in before he continued, “I need to know where we stand now. If this is you trying to get rid of me, or I don't know what?”

“Don't be ridiculous, why would I be trying to get you to leave. I've made more than reasonable concessions to keep you from leaving. Given the circumstances I thought it would be best to give you more space,” Sherlock said. 

“Why?” John asked, “because with all that's going on you think that finding out you care would be the thing that drives me away?”

“I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. The next morning I could feel you tense before I even opened my bedroom door. I decided that if just the thought of confronting me put you so ill at ease I'd save you some stress and just keep myself otherwise preoccupied until we could come to some agreement about the situation,” Sherlock said hotly. This was clearly not the right response as John's brow furrowed in anger. 

“You know what makes me uncomfortable, Sherlock? When my best friend starts avoiding me and hiding things from me. It takes me right back three years ago when you were playing that damn game with Moriarty. I can't deal with the thought of losing you again like that,” John snapped. 

His face flushed hot as the words left his mouth, but he stubbornly refused to look ashamed. Hell, let Sherlock hear the truth, maybe it was the only way to make the brilliant idiot understand. The detective sat silent for a moment his hands fidgeting with his trouser leg. 

“I don't want to lose you again either,” he admitted his eyes darting away. 

John clenched his left hand as he felt the tremors subside once more before nodding. 

“Okay, that's good. Maybe from now on you let me decide what makes me uncomfortable and we go from there?” John suggested. 

“That seems, fair,” Sherlock consented. 

“Right, good. Let me get you some paracetamol and take a look at that cut while you fill me in on what I've missed this week, alright?” John asked, the corners of his lips turned up softly in a slight smile. Sherlock still looked a bit shaken, but his eyes lit up a bit at the thought of telling someone about the case who would actually appreciate his amazing contributions. 

John listened attentively and asked all the right questions while Sherlock detailed the events leading up to tonight's conclusion. By the end of the night the detective was all patched up and John felt like things were actually going to be fine again between them.


	14. Selfish Acts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a revealing moment in the shower and both men behave selfishly for the right reasons.

John trudged up the stairs with a wailing baby strapped to his chest. William had been inconsolable since they reached the tube and John had been deflecting angry accusatory glares from the other passengers the whole ride. He was well and truly knackered, the clinic was busy with flu season getting underway, plus the added stress of public transport with an infant had left him running on fumes all week. William didn't seem to be faring much better, he'd been colicky every evening since starting at the daycare. Neither of them had gotten much rest as of late. For once Sherlock had nothing to do with John's insomnia. 

The detective had gone back to his usual moody, between cases, self. He spent the majority of his time taking up the sofa or working down in his lab. His head wound was on the mend, but John had insisted on him taking it easy for a few days to ensure there would be no lasting damage to his marvelous mind. Things between them had returned to almost normal. Sherlock no longer avoided John, though to be fair John was usually too exhausted in the brief stints between work and caring for William to have noticed if he was. 

Sherlock was in his usual position, fingers steepled together, on the sofa when John shoved the door roughly open and leaned against the frame a moment collecting himself before crossing over the threshold. William continued to cry, but John had long since given up trying to verbally calm the baby. Seemed a bit hypocritical when part of him longed to join in. 

With a huff he pushed free of the door frame and stepped inside, pushing the door closed firmly behind him. He shed his jacked and unclasped William whispering soft platitudes and promises of a change and a bottle as he settled the boy in his basket. Forcing himself to take deep breaths John continued on to the kitchen to set up a bottle and put the kettle on. He was chilled from the damp weather and wanted nothing more than a hot cuppa and a quiet evening. 

“Bad day?” Sherlock inquired. 

John startled, nearly dropped the mug he'd been pulling from the cabinet. He let out a breath and chuckled humorlessly. 

“Yeah, you could say that,” he replied. Sherlock narrowed his eyes taking the doctor in. John knew when he was being deduced and found himself a bit uneasy knowing Sherlock would be able to read the whole terrible day just from the slouch of his shoulders and the way his hand trembled. Nothing to hide, noway to hide it even if he hadn't been too tired to try. He felt unusually exposed and shifted a bit waiting for the rapid verbal onslaught of deductions that never came. 

“Go take a hot shower, I'll see to William,” Sherlock said, instead. 

John's eyes widened in surprise, “You'll do what now?”

“John, you know I hate repeating myself, you'll be running a low-grade fever by morning if you don't warm up soon,” Sherlock said in a tone that meant he was quite done with this conversation. 

“He, he'll need a change too,” John said clearing his throat, still trying to wrap his head around Sherlock's sudden attempt at being helpful. 

“I did notice,” Sherlock assured him, moving past John to resume bottle preparations. 

“Have you ever actually changed a baby before?” John continued. His mouth quirked at the corners at the idea of world renowned consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, changing a soiled nappy.

“You somehow manage, I'm sure I can muddle through,” Sherlock said. Clearly he'd caught the mocking in John's voice and had responded in kind. 

“Right, forgot what a proper genius you are,” John said. 

“How very foolish of you,” Sherlock said with smirk. 

Some of the tension he'd been carrying started to fade with Sherlock's teasing. He excused himself to the sitting room where he caressed a still whimpering William and told him that he'd be back soon, but that Uncle Sherlock was gonna take care of him. The boy didn't seem the least bit comforted by the news, but at least he had quieted down since they'd arrived home. 

John excused himself upstairs and retrieved his robe and some pyjamas. No point in redressing this late in the day. When he passed back by the sitting room Sherlock had William propped up on a changing pad on the floor. He seemed to be considering how best to go about the current procedure all the while William was growing more impatient and waving tiny legs. 

“You sure you don't want me to do that?” John asked, pausing in front of the loo. 

“We'll manage, go shower,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave. His full attention remained focused on the task at hand. John briefly wondered if the detective would have made any progress by the time he finished his shower. Snickering to himself he stepped inside and shut the door behind him. 

Pausing, John took a good look at himself in the mirror. He looked terrible, bags under his eyes, skin pale and sickly. No wonder Sherlock had been worried. He undressed quickly, glad to be out of the damp clothing, and turned the water on. He let it run for a bit to warm and get some steam working to help sooth his overworked lungs. 

Stepping under the water John let out a deep sigh. Okay, this was lovely. He let the water run down his body, warming his tired bones. Eventually he shook his head to clear the fog that had settled there and began running soap over his skin, taking special care around the scar on his shoulder. It didn't actually hurt, but the feel of it under his fingers always made John tense. Moving his hands lower John washed his chest and hips all the way down to his legs and feet. Standing upright again he allowed himself the brief luxury of running a soapy hand along his shaft. 

The stimulation felt far better than it should have and John bit back a soft moan. Okay, clearly it had been too long since he'd taken care of himself. Probably not since William had been born he mused. Christ, that was entirely too long. He might be getting up there in years, but he wasn't dead. No wonder he was so damn tense and ready to snap. 

Sticking his head out of the shower curtain John listened for any sign that Sherlock was having trouble in his absence. He could no longer hear William mewling, so he decided the detective must have conquered the nappy and moved on to feeding the boy. John pulled his head back under the spray and felt a moment of embarrassment at what he was considering. He glanced down at himself, half hard from just one soapy stroke and bit his lip in resignation. 

He carefully took himself by the base and gave a long slow stroke to the tip. His hips cantered forward on their own accord and John knew there was no point in denying his need for release at this point. God knows when he'd have another free minute to take care of this. 

As he stroked slow and evenly along his length his thoughts drifted, first to women he'd dated, who'd dumped him. Then to his spectacular failure at convincing Mary to make things official. Groaning in frustration rather than enjoyment John tried to picture the lady he'd seen on the tube a few days back who'd smiled at him, but even that felt worthless. His body worked reflexively, but with his mind wandering down so many dead ends he couldn't chase the release he so desperately needed. If he took much longer Sherlock would definitely know what he'd been up to. 

Suddenly John's mind coyly offered up an image of Sherlock's face, eyes focused on John, lips parted slightly, smirking in approval at the doctor's flushed and panting state. Disregarding the part of his logical brain that suggested this path might be a bit not good, John closed his eyes tightly and followed further into himself, his hand working swiftly. He pictured Sherlock's slim violinist fingers working him over as the husky baritone purred in his ear. 

“Oh fuck,” John groaned into his orgasm. He slumped forward, one arm resting against the wall to support his head while the other held him through the last trickles of his spent arousal. Everything in his body seemed to relax all at once and he had to fight to keep from dropping to his knees at the shear weightlessness of it all. He slowly came back to himself, panting softly as the water began to turn cold. 

Pushing himself back upright, John rinsed himself off quickly and doubled checked that he wasn't leaving any evidence behind for nosy flatmates to comment on. He stepped out of the shower and toweled himself off vigorously. His mind was in a battle of 'oh that was brilliant' and 'dear God, what just happened.'

He looked at the mirror again and scowled at the flush in his checks and suggestive glint in his eye. There was no way Sherlock wouldn't notice. John turned on the sink and splashed cold water over his face until he felt himself calming down. It was fine, all fine, he'd just had a rather spectacular wank, nothing more to see here. No reason to over think the fact that he'd got there with visions of his male flatmate. The same one who a few weeks ago had confessed to having more than friendly feelings for him. 

“I'm going completely made,” John mumbled to himself hopelessly. 

A stirring of music from the sitting room drew his attention. John glanced through the mirror at the door behind him, he could hear Sherlock playing a soothing melody in the other room. If he closed his eyes John could picture the man, tall and statuesque, swaying slightly to the music as his hands worked seemingly effortlessly to bring the sounds into the world. John caught his reflection smiling fondly before he even realized his mind had drifted. 

Taking a deep breath John finished drying off and pulled on his clothing and tied his robe tightly around him. He cracked the door open and resisted the urge to poke his head out and survey the other room. Steeling himself, from what he had no idea, John stepped out into the hall, ignoring the cooler air that swarmed him as he walked into the sitting room. 

Sherlock stood at his place by the window bow working slowly over the violin strings. He was indeed swaying slightly to keep time with the music, but instead of facing out the window over the darkness of the street below he was smiling at the baby basket which had been moved onto the coffee table to afford it's occupant a better view. The detective's eyes flicked upward momentarily as John appeared in the room, but immediately returned to the basket. 

John moved slowly around to take a look and found William watching Sherlock intently. The babe seemed mesmerized by the sounds of the instrument. His eyes were opened wide in wonder as Sherlock adjusted the tone higher and lower. As if sensing that this was all part of the performance William smiled widely and waved his arms as Sherlock finished with a flourish. His dark hair fell over his face as he took a quick bow in the direction of the basket before standing straight again. 

“Beautiful,” John said softly. His face immediately flushed red at his choice of words. Of course the music had been lovely, but he knew that wasn't what he had been referring to when he spoke. 

“Glad you approve, I think there might yet be hope for your son, he has an ear for good tempo,” Sherlock said as he turned to put the instrument gently back in it's case. 

“Good thing he has you around to cultivate that, left alone with me the best he could probably hope for is a working knowledge of the local football leagues,” John offered as he sat on the sofa facing the babe. William yawned, growing tired now that the source of stimulation had been put away.

“Don't sell yourself short John, I'm sure you'd have some useless trivia about the solar system to impart as well,” Sherlock said as he elegantly flopped down beside the doctor. John snorted and shifted to rest his leg on the table. They fell into a companionable silence as they watch William drift off to sleep. 

“Thanks, for earlier. This single parent thing is a lot harder than I thought it would be. I appreciate all your help 'specially since I know it's not really your area.” 

John hazarded a glance at his friend. He felt nervous that his words would upset the delicate balance they'd established here tonight. The only thing Sherlock hated more than sentiment was having someone draw attention to his having succumbed to it. The detective seemed to consider his words a moment, unusual for a man who always knew exactly what to say since he could usually predict what others would say before they did. 

“I find myself increasingly uncomfortable with you being distressed. Assisting you wasn't an altruistic move on my part, I simply found it the easiest way to alleviate some of your tension,” Sherlock said slowly. 

“Right,” John snorted. 

“What?” Sherlock demanded.

“You think it doesn't count that you were kind because you felt better afterward?” John asked, needing clarification. 

“Isn't that the very definition of a selfish action? Doing something for your own benefit?” Sherlock asked. He said it in an offhand way, as if he didn't really care one way or another about John's answer. 

“Yeah, stepping in and taking care of me and my son. You're a true scoundrel Sherlock Holmes,” John said, giving the detective a playful shove. 

“I will never understand you people and your incomprehensible social graces,” Sherlock grumbled, crossing his arms over himself. 

“That's what you've got me for, remember?” John asked. 

Sherlock just hummed at him and reached up to rub his temple gently. 

“Still sore?” John asked, a concerned frown replacing the easy smile of moments ago. 

“Just a slight headache, something's gone foul in the lab. The fumes didn't agree with me,” Sherlock said with a sigh. 

“Here, lay down and relax a minute,” John said pulling Sherlock's head down to his lap. The detective allowed himself to be steered down and kicked his legs up over the other arm of the sofa as he got comfortable. 

John marveled a moment at the breathtaking sight of Sherlock so relaxed and trusting resting over his legs. The man's eyes were closed tightly as John watched the steady rise and fall of his chest under his shirt. His hand itched to sooth the furrow of the younger man's brow. He hesitated briefly before he moved his hand over and caressed the soft curls. 

“John,” Sherlock's voice broke him from his reverie, “You don't have to do that.”

“Shhh, it's fine, you're not the only one who needs to be a little selfish sometimes,” John said softly as he drew his fingers gently over the detective's scalp. Sherlock's lips curled up in a smile as he relaxed further into the doctor's ministrations. 

It was so relaxing and perfect, just being here with Sherlock like this. William snored softly from his basket and John couldn't help, but feel that this was what home should be. The realization that this was what he'd wanted, longed for all those month's ago when Sherlock had first come back and thrown everything into a tailspin, frightened John. He'd tried to convince himself that he was just ready to settle down and had attempted to get Mary on board by proposing. 

She'd turned him down flat. Practical, impossibly compassionate Mary had known better. Known that she couldn't be what John needed. He'd argued with her, with himself, insisting that she was wrong, but he could see now just how correct she'd been. He could have never been this happy with a life that didn't include Sherlock, and now William as well. 

Dr. John Hamish Watson was a man who kept himself firmly grounded in fact and logic. He'd been working under the assumption that he couldn't possibly have 'those' feelings for his flatmate because he'd never considered himself to be gay. Now, he had to admit to a new and slightly frightening realization that he might also not be entirely straight. His earlier session in the shower had, if nothing else, demonstrated that he could, and did, find the detective arousing, in 'that' way. 

As he felt Sherlock drift away, either to sleep or just a stopover in his mind palace, John resolved that if this was really what he wanted, hell what he needed, then he'd damn sure find a way to make it work. He just wondered how to go about getting Sherlock on-board with this madness.


	15. Dedicated professionals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to let Sherlock know what he's figured out, but life gets complicated at the worst possible time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got back to having this ready on Sunday, hope I can keep it up. 
> 
> Thank you all for the kudos, subs, and comments. Knowing this is being read and enjoyed by others makes me endlessly happy.

John Watson had always considered himself a pretty confident bloke. He was alright looking, and had a calm, non-threatening demeanor that meant women weren't immediately put off when he talked to them. Typically, when he found someone he fancied, he'd flirt them up a bit to gauge their interest and if they seemed keen he'd ask for a number and things usually progressed nicely from there. Well, until the inevitable break-up when the poor women realized she was was second fiddle to John's socially inept flatmate, but that was something else altogether. The point was that John had never had much trouble in the acquisition phase of finding a significant other, until now it would seem. 

Suddenly John found himself not only completely at a loss as to how to proceed, but also, for the first time since he was an awkward teenager, deeply worried about rejection. If a random bird at the Tesco didn't return his advances he could just cut his losses and walk away, if things got intolerably uncomfortable with his best friend and flatmate, John could find himself homeless and hopelessly alone once more. Not a particularly motivating thought. 

He wasn't at all helped by the fact that Sherlock seemed entirely unfazed by any advances he did try to make. The first few days John had attempted to subtlety increase the physical contact between them. He intentionally made sure his fingers brushed the sleuth’s hand when giving him things. When they sat together on the sofa at night watching telly with William, which had happily become part of their normal routine, John always made sure to sit right next to Sherlock instead of at the opposite end of the sofa. So far none of his passive actions had seemed to clue Sherlock into the idea that maybe John was actually receptive of his idea of them together. 

Although, to be fair, Sherlock had only admitted to having feelings for the doctor. There was a nagging part of John's mind that insisted that alone did not necessarily mean the detective wanted to start a relationship. John had trouble even wrapping his mind around what a relationship with Sherlock Holmes would actually be like. Potentially volatile and dangerous most like, and why did that sound so damn appealing? 

The idea that he should just grab that impossibly brilliant man and kiss him to make his point had occurred to John, but he wasn't sure how Sherlock would react and he didn't fancy leaving himself completely vulnerable to the detective's possible rejection. So far this had left them in the unusual position of not being in any sort of formal relationship, while both of them acknowledged they had feelings for the other. In short, it was the beginning of one of the more frustrating weeks of John's adult life. 

None of this was helped in the least by the fact that he was still up to his elbows in flu patients at the clinic, or that William's daycare provider was now insisting that he pay for every minute he was late picking his son up in the evenings. He'd tried being friendly and explaining his difficult situation, but they were having none of it. Apparently there were plenty of people who would be more than happy to take his place should he decide to find a 'more suitable' place for his son. John desperately wished he had the money to take Will anywhere else if only to get away from the completely disagreeable women who ran the place. 

Things finally came to a head when he tried to drop William off one morning when the boy was running a low-grade fever. John tried to explain that it was just a minor ear infection and that he'd already taken the boy to his pediatrician and given him some meds so he wasn't contagious in the least, but that he really needed to go to work and had no other plans for him. The woman put a pasty hand on her boney hip and informed him that was not her problem, sick children weren't allowed.

Throwing his hands in the air John thanked her for being absolutely unhelpful and informed her that she could go ahead and give his bloody space to someone else because he was done. It wasn't like John to lose his temper like that, the woman didn't seem the least bit fussed by it, but once they were on their way back to the tube John privately apologized to William for his outburst. The babe just gurgled miserably and snuggled closer to his father. 

John called the clinic, planning to beg a day off from Sarah, but she was unexpectedly anxious as he relayed the mornings drama to her. 

“I'll do my best to be in tomorrow, but it looks like I'll have to find new arrangements for William and I'm not sure I can get that sorted while he's home resting,” John said, walking briskly to the tube station.

“John, I know ordinarily we try to work with you, but you really can't be out this week,” Sarah said. 

“Sorry? I know it's short notice and all, but there's not much I can do. Can't exactly bring him with me, can I,” John said. He had to fight to keep from sounding annoyed, it wasn't Sarah's fault the whole morning had been a disaster. 

“Look, I'm not supposed to say anything, but we've got an inspector in and he's been asking about your attendance records. They are looking to cut our budget John, it would be really bad for you to be out right now,” Sarah confided. 

“Shit,” John said with a sigh. 

“Right, can't one of your mates take him for the day?” Sarah asked. 

“Guess I'll need to find out.”

“John, I'm sorry. I didn't even know he was coming until he showed up this morning.”

“It's fine, I'll see what I can do and be there as soon as possible,” John said before ringing off and going down the stairs to get on the tube. His phone refused to get reception here so the ride was spent consoling William and checking his watch compulsively. 

As soon as he disembarked he frantically put in a call to Mrs. Hudson, but she was busy helping at the bakery and wouldn't be able to take the boy on all day. She suggested that she had heard Sherlock stomping about before she went out and perhaps he could watch the boy and she'd check on the both of them when she got a minute. With no better leads John quickened his pace back to Baker Street. 

Sherlock was busy modifying a map of London with newspaper clippings and push pins when John came running upstairs. The detective didn't even flinch when the door flung open and John came rushing in out of breath. 

“I need you to watch William,” John said quickly as he began unstrapping the baby carrier. 

“Busy,” Sherlock muttered as he adjusted a push pin. 

“No Sherlock, listen there's an inspector at the clinic looking for places to trim the budget and I can't afford to get canned right now. I need you to do this for me,” John pleaded holding the boy out to the detective. 

“Don't you pay someone to do this, professionally?” Sherlock asked raising an eyebrow at John's insistence. He reached over and took the baby regardless. 

“We had a disagreement and she was a bint so now I have to find someplace else,” John said. He panted to catch his breath before locking eyes with the taller man,“Will you do it?”

“Wouldn't Molly or Mrs. Hudson be a more suitable choice?” Sherlock asked after a moment of hesitation. John realized the man was nervous to be left alone with the baby. 

“Both working today, although Mrs. Hudson did say she'd come by to check on you later, will you? Please?”

“I have some leads to follow up on,” Sherlock began, but when John's face threatened to fall he quickly amended, “but I should be able to do most of it by text.”

“Thank you, seriously. I'll help you follow up on the rest when I get home, okay?”

“I suppose that will have to suffice,” Sherlock said. His return to a icy detachment was hampered by the fact that he had begun swaying slightly to soothe William. John doubted that he was even conscience of the movement, but it was enough to convince the doctor that his son was in good hands. 

“I have to go, call if you have any trouble and I'll be home as soon as my shift is over,” John said. Sherlock waved a hand dismissively at him and went back to considering his map project, William nestled snugly in arms. 

John popped into Speedy's and told Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock had agreed to see to the baby today and could she please make sure he remembered that baby's need to eat. She smiled and promised she'd check in on them when she got a moment. As John was leaving she called out, “I'm surprised you didn't think to ask him first dear, you know he'd do anything for you and William.”

John just flushed and muttered his thanks before stepping outside and hailing a cab. So much for his budget. The morning traffic was now well and truly underway so progress was slow. John tried to call Sarah back to let her know he was on his way, but the receptionist said she was in a meeting. John felt his nerves returning as he tried to mentally calculate his attendance record for the past few months. It was abysmal at best and he quickly gave it up as a bad job. He'd just have to hope the inspector was sympathetic enough to take John's family situation and experience into account. 

When he finally pushed through the door of the clinic John knew he was in for it. The receptionist, Martha, gave him a sympathetic look and told him that Sarah had asked that he come directly to her office when he got in. John thanked her and tried to quickly catch his breath. He went down the hall and tapped on Sarah's door, which opened immediately as if she'd been waiting just on the other side. 

“John, you're here. This is Mr. Mumford from the board. He's been wanting to speak with you,” Sarah   
said gesturing to a squat, unpleasant looking man set behind her. She gave John an apologetic look as he stepped into the room and extended his hand. 

“Pleased to meet you,” John offered. 

“Yes,” Mr. Mumford said, eyeing John's hand distastefully, “Dr. Sawyer has told me a great deal about you Dr. Watson. Do you make it a habit of being over an hour late to work everyday?”

John gave what he hoped looked like a polite smile to mask his annoyance as he lowered his neglected hand. 

“Not a habit, no. Had an issue with my son's daycare and had to make other arrangements for him before I could come in,” John said. 

“Isn't that something your wife could handle?” Mr. Mumford asked, raising a greasy eyebrow at him.

“I'm not married and his Mum passed when he was born,” John replied evenly. He'd hoped the brutal honesty would at least garner an apology from the unpleasant man, but Mr. Mumford didn't seem the least bit plussed. 

“It's good to see a man so dedicated to his family. Unfortunately, the dedication seems to have come at the cost of the clinic.” Mr. Mumford said. He tapped a sausage like finger on the file folder on Sarah's desk. John could just make out his own name on the label. 

“I don't follow,” John said. 

“No, I imagine you wouldn't. Thank you for the use of your office Dr. Sawyer, but I think Dr. Watson and I should speak privately for a moment,” Mumford said. 

Sarah flushed in annoyance at being dismissed from her own office, but apparently Mr. Mumford held enough power to do as he liked because with another apologetic glance John's way she excused herself. Once she was gone Mumford seemed to swell with even more self importance. 

“Have a seat Dr. Watson,” he said. John considered refusing, he preferred to take bad news standing up and so far this didn't look like the type of conversation that was likely to end in his favor. Still, he really couldn't afford to come across as combative at a time like this so, reluctantly, he slid down into the chair across from the bloated board member. 

“I feel you should know that I have great respect for the field of medicine Dr. Watson. My father was a doctor and his father before him. I understand the sacrifices a good doctor must make to be successful at his craft,” Mumford said. He paused briefly as if expecting John to either agree or object. When he refused to do either the man continued his lecture, “I have been going over your records and have noticed a severe lack of dedication on your part to both your patients and colleagues here at the clinic. As a primary member of the board I find this a completely unacceptable trait in our doctors.”

“I understand your concern Sir, but I can assure you that despite my private troubles I am very dedicated to my job,” John said. 

“Let's look at your file, shall we?” Mumford said, his tone patronizing, “constantly tardy, numerous instances of leaving mid-shift, frequent call-ins, usually well after your shift had already officially started, extended leaves of absence. Does this sound like the profile of a man who is dedicated to his profession?”

John had to bite his lip to keep from replying. At least it seemed like there was no mention of him napping during his shifts, he'd have to thank Sarah for omitting that detail. 

“I understand that written out it looks bad, but none of those issues were due to apathy toward my patients or fellow doctors,” John said. 

“Weren't they? I've got a copy of your CV here Dr. Watson. Former Army Doctor, made it to Captain?”

“Yes, that's correct.”

“Invalided home?” Mumford pressed. 

“Just like it says,” John said tersely. He could feel his fingers pressing into the arms of the chair as his blood pressure rose. 

“Seems to me Doctor, that after such an exciting career working in a locum might seem a little dull and pointless by comparison. Maybe that has something to do with your inability to treat your position here with the respect it deserves,” Mumford said. He folded his hands over each other waiting for a response. John could feel his gut wretch at the accusation. This grubby little pencil pusher thought he was a bad doctor. Never mind that John often found the locum work boring and tedious, he still did his best. He took his job seriously and this man had no right to come in here and say otherwise. 

“Do you happen to know how I was invalided, Mr. Mumford?” John asked, his cool blue eyes narrowing sharply. 

“No, nor do I see how it is relevant to the topic at hand,” Mumford replied. 

“Oh I find it pretty relevant. I was shot. Right in the shoulder, little further to the side and it would have pierced my heart killing me instantly,” John said. 

“While that is tragic for you Dr. Watson I fail to see,” Mumford began, but John cut him off abruptly, 

“At the time I was shot I was tending to another soldier. He'd been hit by a sniper bullet and was bleeding out not ten feet from cover. I knew the sniper was still around, but I also knew it was my duty to try to save that man. We both nearly died in the sand that day. I'd greatly appreciate it if you would stop telling me that I don't take being a doctor seriously,” John said. When he finished his face was red, but he'd managed to keep his tone steady and controlled. 

Mumford didn't even have the courtesy to look troubled by John's admission. He smoothed his tie reflexively and carried on as if he'd never stopped talking earlier. 

“Your military record was never the issue Dr. Watson. I've no doubt that you served Queen and country to the very best of your abilities. My duty here is to ensure that you offer the same level of dedication to our clients. It seems that Dr. Sawyer has been, negligent in disciplinary actions in regards to you. I intend to remedy that situation immediately.”

“Alright, so what then? Three strikes and I'm out?” John asked. This time he was unable to hide the defensiveness of his tone. 

“Something like that,” Mumford said with a cruel smile, “You should be thankful that I'm counting all the transgressions in your file as one offense. Had they been counted separately you'd have been out of here long ago.”

“Well, thank you for that.” John replied. 

“Sadly, I had hoped to meet with you before your shift started this morning. Instead you came late and now your patients have been shifted off to other doctors all morning. Very unprofessional, I'm afraid that counts as strike two.”

John let out a slow breath while he fought to keep his hand steady. Chinning this arse wasn't going to help his situation in the slightest, but damn if he didn't have to keep fighting the urge. 

“So I've still got one then, or do you plan to dock me points for my shoes not being polished?” John asked instead. Snarky might not have been the best place to go at this point, but he really couldn't help himself. 

“No Dr. Watson, I have every confidence that you'll take care of the third and final offense yourself,” Mumford said, “You really should get back to your patients, I've taken enough of your valuable time.”

“Thank you,” John growled. He pushed himself to his feet and fought the urge to slam the door behind him. Instead he ran a shaky hand over his face and tried to compose himself enough to deal with people. He made his way quickly to his office and pulled on his coat before paging the front to let Martha know he was ready for his next appointment. 

He'd just finished giving Mr. Green a prescription for some blood pressure bills when Martha paged in to tell him he had a call on the line. 

“Can you take a message Martha, I'm a bit behind today,” John asked as he filed the last of Mr. Green's paperwork for the insurance. 

“I offered already Dr. Watson, she say's she's with the Met and that it's very important she speak with you,” Martha's voice cut back over the tiny speaker. John frowned as panic chilled his core. Why would someone from the Yard be calling him at work. He fumbled for his phone, but there were no missed texts from Sherlock, still he couldn't imagine any other reason why someone on the force would call him and if Sherlock was involved than so was William. 

“Oh God, hold my next appointment a moment will you?” John asked. 

“Of course,” Martha replied before transferring the call. 

John scooped up the phone and jammed his finger on the hold button to receive the call. 

“Watson here,” he said quickly. 

“Dr. Watson, I'm going to need you to come collect your freak and your son,” Sally Donovan's voice cut in icily. 

“Sargent Donovan? Where are they?”

“Actually it's Detective Inspector Donovan, and they are currently mucking about at my crime scene.”

“Right, give me the address,” John said, ignoring Donovan's insistence at the new title. Lestrade had mentioned something about it a while back, but John had refused to believe the Met thought her trustworthy after her hand in Sherlock's fall. 

He buzzed back to Martha and told her he had an emergency and would need to take his lunch immediately. She sounded worried, but said she'd make sure his patients were seen. Deciding that was the best he could do, John headed out and hailed yet another cab to take him to where Sherlock was. Apparently, they would need to have a talk about where it was poor form to take an infant. John decided that crime scenes would be at the top of the list.


	16. The scene of the crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John arrives at the crime scene at the behest of D.I. Donovan. Everything seems to fall apart prompting John to finally ask for what he needs.

Sherlock wasn't answering his mobile. John tried over and over and even sent a few texts, but got no response the whole ride over. What had he been thinking? Sherlock could barely keep himself out of trouble on a daily basis, asking him to play primary caregiver to an infant for a day was just throwing oil on the fire. John berated himself for being so wrapped up in his own sudden revelations about his possible interest in the man that he had willfully ignored all past history that firmly dictated that leaving William and Sherlock unsupervised was a colossally bad idea.

 

The cabbie was good enough to take John right up to where the yellow tape cordoned off the scene. There were a smattering of police cars and beat cops swarming around trying to keep the civilians out of the way. John leaned forward and handed over money he really couldn't afford to spend to pay the man before hopping out onto the kerb.

 

It appeared the crime took place in a side alley off to the right of a small cafe. The building had seen better days, the shutters worn and the stripped awning torn in places from time and weather. John stepped up to the tape and looked around urgently trying to find someone who would recognize him. He was about to give up and just try ringing Sherlock directly again when he spotted one of the EMT's by the ambulance cooing at a familiar bundle in her arms.

 

Disregarding protocol in a manner that would have done Sherlock proud, John ducked quickly under the tape and made for the open back of the emergency vehicle. One of the beat cops moved to intercept him, but John just shook him off, “That's my son she's got there.”

 

The man looked confused and apprehensive, but moved back to flank John, as if unsure if he would need to restrain the blonde man or provide backup, and wanting to remain close until he was sure which.

 

“Excuse me, you've got my baby there,” John said to the dark-haired women.

 

“Yours? I thought he was with that detective fellow?” The women frowned, eying John distrustfully.

 

“S'allright Pam, this is Dr. Watson. He's the lad's rightful father,” Donovan said, stepping out of the alley and striding over to them purposefully.

 

Pam didn't look too pleased, but she offered William to John, who took the boy into his arms carefully. John began checking him over carefully, at least the boy's fever was gone, as John had known it would be with a little time and rest. Pam seemed to take John's concern as proof of his claim and her eyes softened.

 

“Don't worry Dr. Watson, I kept on eye on him while your friend was checking out the scene. Not much else to do since there wasn't any victims to tend. He's a very good baby, not a peep outta him,” She said with a smile.

 

“Freak's over there,” Donovan said gesturing back the way she'd come from. John bristled at her insistence on still calling Sherlock a freak after all he'd done to clear his name, but for the moment he had more pressing concerns. Pretending she hadn't spoken, John addressed the EMT.

 

“Thank you. I hate to ask, but would you mind watching him a moment longer while I go get things sorted with Sherlock?” John asked. Pam's smile widened.

 

“Not at all, I love babies,” She took William eagerly back into her arms and rocked him gently. John nodded his thanks and turned to follow Donovan.

 

“All right, where's the body?” John asked, as calmly as he was able.

 

“Body turned up in an abandoned warehouse last night. Freak insists this is where she was nabbed so the Superintendent sent my team out to look it over. Bloody waste of time if you ask me,” Sally snorted as she motioned back the way she'd come from.

 

“Yes, well good thing nobody asked you,” John replied as he stepped around her. He was busy processing the new information. No body, just an area of potential interest to the case. That was certainly less horrible than he'd imagined when he'd been summoned here. Still a bit on the outside of 'good', but by Sherlock standards it was pretty miraculous.

 

“You never learn do you?” Donovan asked, falling into step beside him.

 

“What's that?”

 

“After everything he's done you must really be as mental as he is to keep sticking around,” Sally said.

 

“Must be,” John replied as they rounded the corner. He could make out Sherlock's coat at the end of the alley. There were several other people milling about, forensics techs who were busy bagging up different bits and bobs as Sherlock pointed them out.

 

“Oi, listen John, I know you don't like me,” Donovan said pulling to a stop, “but I'm trying to help you here. Lestrade told me about your boy. This is no kind of life for that baby. You do not want Sherlock Holmes anywhere near that child unless you want him to end up a bloody psychopath as well.”

 

John's fist clenched as he glared back at her. He couldn't believe that after everything she was still trying to make Sherlock out to be the bad guy.

 

“Don't call him that, okay? He's not a 'psychopath' or a 'freak', not by a long shot,” John snapped, “ And just for the record I'd be proud if my son could learn to see as much as Sherlock. Then he'd be able to know who he could really trust to 'help him out'.”

 

“Bloody hell, you sound just like him. Should I expect a happy announcement soon then?”

 

“Trust me, you wouldn't be invited,” John said turning back down the alley. By this time Sherlock had spotted him and after a few more choice words to the team gathering evidence he whirled around meeting John halfway.

 

“John, what are you doing here?”

 

“Donovan called me. Mind telling me why you brought my son to a crime scene?”

 

“Technically it wasn't a crime scene when I arrived. The actual crime probably occurred two nights ago,” Sherlock replied. .

 

“Not the point, Sherlock”, John snapped.

 

“Think you boys could take your little domestic somewhere else, the real police have work to do,” Donovan said with a smirk.

 

Sherlock opened his elegant mouth to speak, no doubt to point out how Donovan wouldn't have even known it was a crime scene if he hadn't triangulated the position and called it in, when John interjected.

 

“You still can't admit it can you?” John asked with a scowl.

 

“Admit what?” Donovan quirked her eyebrow and crossed her arms defensively.

 

“That you were wrong about Sherlock, that he was able to figure out all those crimes and bring down Moriarty, even going so far as to fake his own death so he could piece together the evidence to clear his name,” John said, “It must just kill you to know how wrong you were, but your tarnished pride isn't a good enough reason to keep him from helping people when you lot haven't got a clue to rub between yourselves so why don't you just back off?”

 

“You really think you can trust him? That's rich! Let me bring a drugs squad by and see what dirty little secrets of his we can find,” Sally shouted back. Her eyes were locked over John's shoulder on the man in question.

 

“Try it and I'll report you for harassment,” John said, his voice low and icy. That brought Donovan's attention back squarely onto him, just as he'd hoped. She seemed to be debating with herself over how much farther she wanted this to escalate. She was glaring daggers at John all the while.

 

“Both of you get the hell off my crime scene before I report you for child endangerment,” Sally snapped before turning and striding abruptly down to shout abuse at the techs who'd stopped work to watch the heated exchange.

 

“John,” Sherlock muttered after Donovan was a suitable distance away.

 

“Not here,” John replied and walked briskly back to collect his son from Pam.

 

'Not here' also apparently included the cab as John snuggled William close to himself and refused to let Sherlock get out a full sentence. Finally, the detective pulled out his mobile and began tapping away. Idleness did not sit well with Sherlock when there were cases to solve and plots to foil.

 

The cabbie pulled up to the kerb by the clinic and John reluctantly handed William off to a bewildered Sherlock. Evidently the man truly hadn't been paying attention to where they were headed, trusting John to take care of things.

 

“You're not coming home?” Sherlock asked as he settled William.

 

“I have to get back to the clinic, already been chewed out once today about my attendance,” John said with a soft sigh.

 

“Idiots, don't they realize that the Work takes precedence?” Sherlock scoffed. He was trying to lighten the mood, but John didn't have the energy to engage in their usual banter.

 

“You two are to go straight home and stay put until I get there, okay?” John said opening the door and stepping out.

 

“Of course, but John, about earlier,” Sherlock said quickly, trying to say his piece. John felt panic flood his chest at what Sherlock might reveal. He really couldn't take anymore bad news today.

 

“We'll talk about that later,” John cut him off before he could say anything to make things worse by swiftly shutting the door and bounding up the steps of the clinic.

 

For a moment John was worried that Sherlock would simply get out of the cab and follow him until he could say whatever it was that he felt needed to be shared. Whatever he felt would explain or justify, all of this mess. Donovan's threat hung heavy on John's mind as he greeted Martha and made his way back to his office. He stepped in and pulled on his coat, ready to push the call button and summon his next patient when a dry cough coming from his desk pulled his attention. Mumford sat there watching him, he did not look pleased.

 

 

John just stood looking at the door of 221B for what felt like hours. Eventually he decided that prolonging the inevitable wasn't doing anybody any good and began making his way upstairs. His whole body felt heavy and sluggish. He vaguely recognized the feeling as being similar to how he'd felt when he'd first woken up in the army hospital in Afghanistan and heard that he would no longer be a surgeon.

 

He'd tried so hard to put a life together for himself and his son, but Mumford had been immovable. In the end Sarah had promised to bring his things to him on her next day off providing that he left before the conversation could get any more heated. She'd offered him cab fare, but John had just shook his head and stumbled off numbly to the tube station. He hadn't bothered with a direct route, instead he just rode around the city a bit. He wasn't going anywhere or looking for anything particular, just trying to put off having to come home and admit defeat.

 

Sherlock was sat in his armchair reading a book while William batted at the ribbon above his basket and made cooing noises. John stood silently watching them both for a moment before turning and trudging up the stairs to his room. He didn't even bother turning on the light, just toed off his shoes and fell face first onto the still-made bed. A soft sob escaped his throat, but at least no tears began to flow.

 

Christ, he was pathetic. How could he have been so stupid to think he could raise a child. He couldn't even hold a real job, or keep a relationship. John breathed in a deep shuddering breath. He could hear footsteps on the stairs and he clenched his eyes shut in the darkness.

 

“John, what's happened?” Sherlock asked quietly.

 

“Nothing that matters to you, just lost my job and now I have no idea what I'm going to do,” John huffed. He felt the tears forming in the corners of his eyes and locked his jaw to keep from choking out another sob.

 

There was silence and for a brief moment John thought that Sherlock had really just taken him at his word that this was of no consequence to him and left John to suffer alone. That thought nearly tore his heart in half, but after countless seconds he heard a soft step, then another until the bed dipped down beside him.

 

“I didn't anticipate Donovan being assigned the case today or that she would summon you to collect me. I should have prevented it,” Sherlock said. To anyone else it might have sounded like he was making excuses, but John knew it was Sherlock's way of saying he was sorry. John felt some of his anger fade at the implied apology and let out a soft huff of air.

 

“It's not your fault, well not entirely,” John amended, still speaking mostly into his pillow to keep Sherlock from seeing how wretched he felt.

 

“It was a menial job that was far beneath your talents,” Sherlock said. John just snorted into the pillow before slowly turning his head to answer.

 

“Maybe so, but it paid the bills.” John glanced up at his best friend, illuminated only by the light coming through from the hallway, and sighed, “What am I going to do, Sherlock? I can't be unemployed now.”

 

“You still have some money from cases, and you're very resourceful when it comes to stretching out a budget. If you insist on tormenting yourself with a tedious day job I'm sure Stamford would be happy to put in a word for you at any number of places. You'll be fine John,” Sherlock said reaching over to run his hand soothingly over John's back.

 

“Yeah, I'm not so sure of that,” John admitted.

 

“It will be fine John, you and William will be fine, no matter what happens, understand?” Sherlock said. John gave no indication that he was even listening, instead biting his lip in concentration.

 

“About the crime scene,” John began, Sherlock started speaking before the words had time to echo back in the half-darkened room.

 

“William was never in any danger, I assure you. I merely deduced the pattern the murderer had left and narrowed it down to five possible locations in that area. He was adequately fed and bundled up and we weren't in more danger than if we'd just gone for a walk to Tesco. You have to know I would never risk your son, John,” Sherlock blurted quickly. There was a touch of desperation to his tone and John realized that Sherlock was afraid he wouldn't believe him.

 

“So, you weren't out hunting for the criminal?” John asked to clarify.

 

“Of course not, his last victim had a puncture mark from where a needle had broken off in her neck, no doubt because she had struggled when the assailant clumsily attacked her and she fought back. Her body was found in a warehouse along the Thames so I needed to find where she'd actually been picked up. Once I did I called the Yard then bought a coffee and waited around until they turned up so I could make sure they would actually find all the evidence that was right in front of them,” Sherlock said quickly.

 

“Okay, bit unorthodox maybe, but not as bad as Donovan made it sound,” John said.

 

“Well it would hardly be the first time she let her disregard for me cloud her judgment,” Sherlock said darkly.

 

“Yeah, bit of a Bitch isn't she?” John asked with a smirk. Sherlock grinned back and chuckled his assent.

 

John rolled himself up and scooted to sit on the side of the bed next to his friend. Sherlock just let his hand drop beside himself clumsily when John moved. After a brief hesitation John reached between them and rested his hand atop the other man's. Sherlock raised his eyebrow in a silent question, but made no move to pull away from the contact.

 

“Look, this whole being a parent thing has been kinda rough on me,” John began slowly.

 

“Don't be concerned. This is a perfectly normal reaction to the prolonged stress you've endured since William's birth. As always John, your resolve is incredible, but no one can be expected to endure so much indefinitely,” Sherlock said. He turned his hand over so John's palm cupped his own. When he paused uncertainly John laced their fingers together to strengthen the hold.

 

“There's something else,” Sherlock said, as always a statement, rather than a question. John nodded slowly, trying to pick out the words he needed to make Sherlock understand. He didn't have much to offer, certainly not to someone as remarkable and brilliant as his best friend.

 

“About before,” John said carefully.

 

“What Donovan said? About ordering a drugs bust?” Sherlock offered. He tried to sound dismissive, but it came off defensive. Seeming to realize this he fell silent.

 

“No, not about that. You told me you've been clean since I moved back and I trust you,” John said.

 

“John,” Sherlock protested, but John just shook his head.

 

“I trust you Sherlock, always have, always will do,” John said with a sad smile,”but, I can't do this on my own. I thought maybe I could, but it's too much and I'm scared that I'm going to mess it all up.”

 

“John, I told you, no matter what happens you and William will be fine,” Sherlock said giving John's hand a firm squeeze for emphasis.

 

“Just let me finish, please?”

 

“Of course, go on.”

 

“The truth is, I don't want to keep trying to do this all on my own. I need someone I can trust to be there for me and William, thick or thin. Someone who'd help me make a better life for my son and maybe even help me to keep going if things got bad again,” John said.

 

He felt Sherlock's fingers tense in his own and looked up at the detective carefully. He could just make out Sherlock's eyes under his dark fringe in the dim lighting. When the man spoke his voice was measured and even.

 

“John, if you need, companionship, I won't stand in your way. I know I can be, difficult at times, but if you need someone else to be happy then I won't intentionally sabotage it.”

 

Sherlock moved to stand up, but John grabbed his wrist forcefully and tugged him back down.

 

“I was talking about you, you git,” John said. His heart thudded loudly in his chest as he watched Sherlock's eye's narrow in confusion before slowly moving his wrist out of John's grip.

 

“John, this isn't,” Sherlock frowned, it wasn't often the man was at a loss for something to say. He cleared his throat and began again, “I'll help you, of course. In any way I can, but you must know, I don't expect you to... force yourself to reciprocate feelings you don't have.”

 

“I wouldn't do that to either of us,” John said adamantly. He meant it too. He'd been part of too many one-sided relationships in the past to ever want to knowingly go that route again.

 

“John, it feels redundant to mention, but as you yourself so frequently point out, you are not gay. Thus any sort of _relationship_ between us would necessarily fail,” Sherlock said.

 

“I did say that,” John admitted, “believed it at the time too, but I'm not so sure now. Hell, there's a whole spectrum of sexuality in the world. Maybe I've been bisexual my whole life and just never bothered to explore it. Point being, I know I care about you, far more than just colleagues or best mates or whatever we're supposed to be.”

 

“If you're doing this to try to be kind, or perhaps to spare my feelings, you needn't,” Sherlock said looking away into the darkened corner of the room.

 

“No, this isn't to be kind,” John said with a sad shake of his head, “In fact, this is probably the most selfish thing I've ever done, but I don't see how I can keep on like this without your help and you're the only person I know I can trust to get us through this mess. So, if there is any way this could work, any way you're still interested, I'm willing to try.”

 

John lay his hand open on the duvet between them and watched Sherlock consider it silently. He heard William growing impatient with being left alone downstairs, probably close to supper time actually. He was just about to stand to go to retrieve his son and give Sherlock space to think when he felt those long, thing fingers twine with his own once again.

 

“I want to try,” Sherlock said softly.

 

John smiled, his first real smile all day and gave Sherlock's hand a small squeeze as he nodded.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was difficult. After countless revisions I think I'm finally happy with how it came out, but the guys were having a very difficult time coming to where I needed them to get. I'm glad they finally worked it out and that I was able to get this posted.


	17. Partners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds out what Sherlock's been up to without him.

John clutched at the envelope under his arm protectively as he entered New Scotland Yard. Beat cops and detectives swarmed the place, all far too busy to take notice of him as he hesitantly made his way to the lift. Pressing the button that would take him to the homicide level he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Soon he'd have some answers. 

The morning had started off normally enough. John woke when he heard William fussing and the two of them went through their usual morning routine. Right up until the part where they would usually be dashing for the tube station so John could make it to work on time. With his current lack of employment John found himself with time for another coffee and yesterday's newspaper. 

He hadn't heard a peep from Sherlock all morning and had just assumed the man had finally succumbed to sleep. A well rested Sherlock was a rare enough occurrence that John had no intention of disturbing the detective if he could help it, even if his mind was swirling with questions about their conversation the night before. 

After they had agreed to give things a try they had reluctantly broken apart so John could tend to the baby. Sherlock had gone back to his map, muttering about brick particles and moving push pins in a circular pattern from the alley he'd discovered earlier. Essentially, it was a normal evening. The only thing that gave any indication that Sherlock hadn't simply deleted the whole conversation was when John had announced he was going to bed and the detective had bounded over to him and gave his arm a brief squeeze before wishing him a goodnight. He spun back to work just as quickly and John was left stammering his reply to Sherlock's back. 

In truth, John had been a bit worried after that little exchange. He wasn't entirely sure how the transition from best mate to, 'something else' was supposed to go. He'd hoped they could hash out some of the details over breakfast, but as always Sherlock had other plans for him. 

“You have to meet with Lestrade in one hour, take your gun,” Sherlock announced as he came barreling into the flat. John barely had time to register the sound of footsteps on the stairs and nearly startled and dropped his mug. 

“Where are you coming in from? I thought you were still sleeping,” John said smoothing out the wet stain on the newspaper in front of him. Boring article anyway. 

“There are entirely too many preparations to make to sleep the day away, John,” Sherlock said as he tossed his coat onto the rack and dashed off to his bedroom. 

“Right, mind filling me in on any of these plans of yours?” John asked, setting his mug down. 

“Business is about to pick up and I'll need you to be fully prepared, hurry and get dressed,” Sherlock swept back into the sitting room carrying a stack of papers which he dropped down on his desk. 

“Why would I need my gun to go meet Lestrade? You do remember that I'm not actually supposed to have that right? Are you trying to get Greg to arrest me?” John asked, making his way upstairs even as he offered a token protest. 

Sherlock had already plopped down in his chair and begun scribbling at the pages he'd brought out. When the man didn't seem prepared to offer any further explanation John had just gave a long suffering sigh and made his way upstairs. He pulled on some jeans and buttoned his shirt before tugging his green jumper over himself. He hesitated a moment, but eventually he removed his Sig from it's hiding place and fixed it into it's belt holster. He popped by the loo and made sure his hair wasn't too sloppy before stepping back into the sitting room and starting to collect William's diaper bag. 

“Not necessary, you'll be busy today. Better to leave William here with me,” Sherlock called as he shuffled through his overstuffed desk drawers a moment before procuring an envelope large enough to begin stuffing the papers into. 

“After yesterday you expect me to just leave my son alone with you again?” John asked. 

“I explained yesterday already, John,” Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes, “besides I assumed you'd find the idea of taking an infant to the gun range to be objectionable so this is clearly the better option.”

“Wait, why am I going to the gun range?” John asked, frowning. 

“It's procedure, or so I'm told. Necessary in any case, though I've spared you the more tedious of the usual requirements,” Sherlock replied. He sealed the envelope and held it out for the doctor to take. 

“Sherlock, what are you talking about?” John snapped. He crossed his arms firmly over his chest, refusing to take the offered parcel until he found out what the bloody hell was going on. 

“Do you trust me, John?”

“Yes, though I haven't the faintest idea why at present,” John replied. The immediacy of his response should have surprised him, but with Sherlock he had no doubts, therefore, no need to rethink his gut reaction. 

“It should go without saying, but I trust you as well, which is why I need you to go meet with Lestrade then head over to the Yard to meet with Chief Superintendent Dobson and give him this parcel,” Sherlock said calmly. 

“What's in it?” John asked. He was still confused, but he found his defenses lowering at Sherlock's admission. He knew for a fact that the detective didn't put his trust in people idly. John reached for the envelope carefully. 

“Just some paperwork he's been expecting,” Sherlock said, the corner of his mouth curving in a slight smile as he saw John's objections melting away. 

John sighed and took the parcel. It was heavier than expected, how many bloody papers had Sherlock managed to stuff in there?

“I'm not actually a courier, just so we're clear on that,” John said, “Don't expect that just because I'm out of work that I'm suddenly available to run all your errands for you.”

“Of course, my dry cleaning won't be ready until midweek,” Sherlock grinned. 

“Prat,” John huffed. 

He knelt down and fussed over William a bit. Telling the boy that he had to go take care of a few things, but that he'd be back as soon as he could and try not to let Uncle Sherlock do anything too daft while he was gone. Sherlock snorted at that bit and John felt slightly vindicated. His mobile dinged as he received a text from Sherlock with the address where he was to meet Greg. 

Standing up again, he regarded the taller man carefully, still uncertain how to proceed. They'd never been particularly strict about physical boundaries in the past, but now that there was the underlying assumption of, well whatever they were now, John wasn't sure where they stood. Sherlock seemed to be just as unsure and was about to just turn away when John reached and grabbed his hand. Sherlock's steel blue eyes locked on the connection before flitting up to meet John's gaze questioningly. 

“We'll figure it out. You're a genius, I'm sure we can make something work. In the meantime we just take it slow, yeah?” John asked. 

Sherlock smiled, “As you like.”

They parted and John slipped off downstairs to hail a cab, trying his hardest not to grin like a fool the whole way. 

Lestrade had greeted him and got right to business. He wanted to see John shoot. 

“I know I saw you in action at Baskerville, but since you aren't technically allowed to be in possession of a fire arm we can't count that,” Greg had said with a grin. 

When John had asked what this was all about Greg had just shrugged him off. 

“Hell, I only heard you'd be here this morning. Seems like Sherlock's been going around behind both our backs on this one.”

Somehow John wasn't even that surprised. He accepted the ear protection Greg offered and took his turn firing at the targets. If he'd had any concerns about his marksmanship lagging since he'd left the army they were quickly put to rest. The intermittent tremor in his left hand may have prevented him from being reliable in a surgery, but John shot right-handed, and that hand never wavered. 

Lestrade complimented him on his marks and jotted down the scores on yet another set of papers which he gave over to John to take along to his meeting with the Chief Superintendent. Another cab ride, today was becoming a rather expensive first day of unemployment, and John was stepping onto the kerb in front of the Yard. 

John exited the lift and after getting mildly lost and having to ask directions from a friendly receptionist he found himself standing outside the Chief Superintendent's office. At least it's not the one I chinned, John thought with a smug grin as he reached out and knocked firmly on the door. A gruff voice called out for him to enter. John took a deep breath to try to slow his racing heart before he reached down and turned the knob. 

Chief Superintendent Dobson was a large man, both tall and round, with thinning hair and a prominent chin that he probably used to crack open walnuts. John had to keep himself from snorting with laughter when he spotted a bowl of the nuts sat on a side table in the corner of the room. He wondered what Sherlock would make of his observation. 

“Ah, you must be Dr. Watson,” Dobson said as he stood to greet John, “Mr. Holmes has made mention of you. I'm pleased to finally make your acquaintance.” 

“Likewise,” John said shaking the hand Dobson had offered him. He hoped he was managing to not look completely confused, but suspected it wasn't going well. Not sure what else to add he offered the parcel from Sherlock and the papers Greg had added to the imposing figure before him. 

“Bout time he made his decision, I didn't make the offer lightly you know,” Dobson said as he snatched the envelope and began pulling out the paperwork inside. John just sat there, completely unsure what decision the Chief Superintendent was referring to, and what part he was meant to play in it. 

“All seems to be in order, we'll need your NDA as well Dr. Watson, then I can see about getting you a permit so you can carry a firearm. He said you'd pass with flying colors, but I've got seasoned coppers that have never been this accurate.”

“Ta! I hate to ask, but do you mind filling me in on the details here, Sherlock was a bit vague about it this morning,” John admitted. 

“He didn't ask you until this morning? I thought that was what he was holding the whole process up for?”

“Yeah, I'm not really sure what we're talking about here. Sherlock has a bad habit of telling me things when I'm not actually there to hear them so I'm a bit lost actually,” John said, feeling embarrassed. He was going to have to have a talk with his, well whatever Sherlock currently was, when he got back to the flat. 

Much to John's relief Dobson just laughed. 

“He really is something else. I thought the others were just taking the piss when they told me about him, but after seeing him work for the past few weeks, well, I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, you know?”

John smiled warmly, “Sherlock is definitely one of a kind.”

“Alright, let's take this from the top than, shall we?”

 

John could just catch the sounds of a conversation going on upstairs when he finally arrived back at 221B. He lugged the shopping bags upstairs and pushed his way passed the halfway open door of their flat. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in silent question at the shopping, but said nothing as the man currently sitting in John's chair continued telling the detective his story. Making his way to the kitchen John heard mutterings of “infidelity” and “not a penny” and quickly surmised that the man's wife must have been cheating on him and he'd come to Sherlock to sniff out some evidence. John just smiled to himself, already knowing that things would not go well for the man today. He busied himself putting away the shopping while he waited for Sherlock to dispense their visitor. He didn't have to wait long. 

“Mr. Carlise, you can stop there,” Sherlock interrupted the man mid-sentence. 

“I haven't even told you about the letters she's been hiding, I'm sure they are from an old boyfriend. You simply must find out Mr. Holmes, my marriage depends on it!” The man called Carlise insisted as he worried his hands over the beaten up trilby clasped between them. 

“You mean your divorce depends on it,” Sherlock said simply,”you've been separated from your wife for over a month now, judging by your poor attempts at ironing your own shirts. It seems she, quite correctly, accused you of sleeping with your secretary so now that she's begun seeing other men you'd like for me to document the evidence so you can use it against her in court. She should have no trouble keeping the house in the divorce since you neglected to cover your tracks in time. Social media really isn't a private venue Mr. Carlise, but I'm sure you realize that now.”

“That, how could you know any of that? Has she been here?” Carlise asked, jumping to his feet. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the man's idiocy, “you gave yourself away, though it would hardly take my level of deductive reasoning to spot the mark on your neck that your shirt collar doesn't quite manage to hide. I suspect your wife noticed such marks as well.”

Carlise's face was red and he looked like he might attempt to rip the trilby in half, John had finished putting away the shopping and moved to peer into the sitting room. Most people managed not to resort to violence when Sherlock gave them a dressing down, but you never could tell which ones would snap. John preferred to be ready to intervene if necessary. 

The man loomed over the still sitting detective, looking for all the world as if he wanted to shout, but couldn't quite figure out how. Finally he hissed out a scathing, “well I guess I'll take my business elsewhere.”

“Yes, if only you hadn't done that to begin with we might have both not just wasted our time,” Sherlock replied with just a hint of smile. 

Carlise looked like he might move to strike the detective, but John picked that moment to step more fully into the room, catching the flustered man's attention. Carlise made a half choking sound as he stuffed the abused trilby back on his head and swirled to leave, slamming the door behind him. 

The noise stirred William who's cries came from Sherlock's room where his sleeping basket had been relocated while he napped. Sherlock hopped up swiftly and went to retrieve the babe. 

“Why do people insist on bringing their daytime telly drama into our flat,” Sherlock grumbled, no doubt more put out about the man having woken the baby than about losing another potential client. 

“I expect if they knew your indifference towards infidelity cases upfront, they wouldn't bother,” John replied, “ He eaten yet?”

“Due for another if you'd care to prepare it,” Sherlock called as he carefully moved babe and basket back to the sitting room. 

John moved to prepare William's bottle. He could hear Sherlock performing a nappy change in the other room. Making a concentrated effort to temper his feelings until he got the necessary answers he called out, “so, when exactly were you planning to tell me about Dobson's offer?”

He heard soft noises from the sitting room as Sherlock finished cleaning William up and packing the boy away again in his creeper. John retrieved the bottle he'd been warming and went into the sitting room to join them on the sofa. He held his arms out for the baby and Sherlock gently shifted closer to give the boy back to his father so John could begin feeding him. Once the babe had firmly latched on and begun drinking John cocked his head inquisitively at his, whatever Sherlock now was, and waited for an answer. 

Sherlock cleared his throat softly, possibly biding time before he asked, “Are you upset with me?”

“Upset? God no, Sherlock this is brilliant. We're licensed private detectives now. We can officially work on cases with the Yard and we'll even get paid for it. I don't know why they didn't just do this years ago, would have saved us all loads of trouble,” John said. 

“The,” Sherlock paused as if considering his choice of words, “opportunity, didn't present itself until recently. I was hesitant to accept, but circumstances changed and I thought it would be the best option.”

John noted the man's reluctance and frowned, “why were you hesitant?”

Sherlock considered him carefully before replying, “I'm no longer completely free to pick and choose which cases I'll take. As an official consultant I can be called upon to work whatever cases Dobson deems necessary, under whichever D.I. has already been assigned as the official investigator on the case. I will also be required to deal with the tedious business of filing paperwork detailing my deductions about the cases and all the associated administrative duties that entails.”

“So, you had to give up your autonomy?” John asked. Sherlock nodded his assent and John frowned. He knew of Sherlock's need to be in control of his work. The man balked at any attempts to curtail his eccentric methods, occasionally to the point of sulking. Having to defer to others, very likely ones whom he deemed insufficiently intelligent to understand his brilliance would be difficult. John knew it was up to him to soften any such blows. 

“Okay, I can see why you might not want to do it. It's not going to be easy having to deal with the likes of Donnovan or Templeton if we get assigned to one of their jobs, but I can handle the administrative side, everyone thinks I'm your P.A. anyway so it's not even much of a stretch,” John said. 

“Yes, I'd hoped you'd be willing to take that on. It might be more in-depth than blogging about the cases, but I've every confidence that you'll manage,” Sherlock said. 

“Just so long as you remember to explain things so that even I can understand them I think we'll be fine,” John said, smiling reassuringly. 

“Really John, I can only do so much,” Sherlock said, his grin giving him away. 

“You're lucky I'm holding a baby right now,” John said, but his own smile took away any threat behind the words, “so, you weren't going to tell me because you weren't planning to take the position?”

“I wasn't sure it would work out,” Sherlock said with a casual shrug. John's eyes narrowed slightly. Sherlock did not shrug, casually or otherwise. 

“What else?” John asked. 

“What do you mean?”

“What are you not telling me about this? You're hiding something, I can't deduce what, but I know I'm right,” John said, mindful not to raise his voice as he shifted William against his shoulder and patted him carefully. 

Sherlock smiled then, the sort of smile he usually reserved for when John had done or said something especially brilliant. John felt his heart quicken at the look, but refused to avert his eyes, even when he felt the beginnings of a blush creeping into his cheeks. 

“It wasn't so much 'hiding' as omission, but yes, there is something else. I have every reason to suspect that Mycroft is behind the sudden willingness of the Met to allocate funds toward bringing on professional consultants. As such you can understand my concern with accepting such a position,” Sherlock said. 

John stiffened a little at the admission. He finished burping William and snuggled the boy in his arms while he sorted out how he wanted to ask his next question. 

“If Mycroft is involved then why did you accept? You hate working for your brother.”

“As I said, circumstances changed and I felt that you might be amicable to the benefits of an official position,” Sherlock replied. 

“Because my circumstances changed,” John said with a frown, “Sherlock, you didn't have to do this for me. God, I'd never ask you to do something that would make you miserable.”

“John, I already know that,” Sherlock cut him off, “you'd never ask because you understand. You have to know that is worth more to me than the inconvenience of my brother's meddling. I want you to be my partner in this because if I have you on my side than the rest doesn't matter.”

John took a deep breath as he absorbed the meaning behind those words. It was quite possibly the most sentimental thing he'd ever heard Sherlock say to anyone. 

“You and me against the rest of the world?” John asked. 

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, his eyes shinning with the hint of manic excitement he usually reserved for serial killers. 

“I think that sounds brilliant,” John said as he stood up and held William out to the detective. Sherlock reached up to accept the boy without complaint as John leaned in and placed a chaste kiss on the man's cheek. Sherlock's face reddened unexpectedly at the contact which only caused John's smile to blossom further. 

“You keep an eye on our lad and I'm going to go make us some dinner to celebrate,” John announced as he departed from the room, his heart beating so loudly in his chest as adrenaline coursed through him, that he was sure Sherlock could hear it over the sounds of him banging about in the kitchen. He nearly wondered if he'd moved too fast when he heard Sherlock's baritone ask, “What day is it?”

“Doesn't matter, you're eating tonight,” John called back. He was smugly satisfied with the sudden turn of events.


	18. Back to The Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys suddenly find themselves on a case and William lands a new babysitter.

John sat at the kitchen table, William propped up in his arms contently nursing a bottle while the doctor flipped idly through a newspaper and stole infrequent sips of coffee. From the other room he could hear conversation as Sherlock interviewed potential clients. It seemed to John that in anticipation of being called in for truly dull cases for the Yard the detective had become increasingly difficult to impress with the cases presented by his private clientele. 

“So, nobody was killed then?” Sherlock asked dryly. 

“Goodness no, Mr. Holmes nothing of the sort, but the necklace is invaluable to my family and I'm sure my daughter's boyfriend had a hand in taking it,” The posh woman in her forties answered quickly. 

“He may have had a hand in taking it, but only at the insistence of your daughter,” Sherlock replied. 

“Jennifer? Why would she do such a thing?” The woman demanded, clearly flustered. 

“I suggest you ask her, Mrs. Billings. You may want to have the police present when you do as I suspect the conversation could turn volatile quickly once she realizes you've caught onto her little scheme. Of course the resulting murder would have been a far more interesting outcome than this discussion, especially once the hapless boyfriend realized how in over his head he'd gotten and turned on her,” Sherlock said. 

“You're wrong, my Jennifer would never do such a thing,” Mrs. Billings insisted. 

“Well, clearly you'd know better than me,” Sherlock said dismissively, “Good day to you madame, I shall look for what's left of you on the evening news.”

John could hear the sound of sobs as the women collected her things and stormed out, slamming the door behind her. 

“Rude,” John called out as he shifted William for a burping. 

“Ignorant,” Sherlock snapped back. There was a shuffling as he stood before appearing in the doorway before the doctor. 

“You just told that poor woman that her daughter not only stole from her, but was likely to attempt to kill her,” John said, letting the newspaper drop back to the table. 

“She did and she would,” Sherlock replied. 

“Yes, but that's a bit much to take in all at once. You could have been kinder,” John said. 

“Dull, if I had been kind about it she wouldn't have taken my word as seriously. Now that she has the necessary information she can take the appropriate steps. I probably just saved her life, unless she is as stupid as the style of her handbag implied, in which case I merely bought more time for the daughter to build an alibi. Not my problem in any case,” Sherlock said. He took a seat opposite John. 

“Right, so effective, but still rude,” John said, moving William to a more comfortable position.

“You are more than welcome to conduct the next interview,” Sherlock said. 

“Anymore planned for today?” John asked. 

“No, just as well. I'm supposed to check in with my handlers at the Yard this afternoon,” Sherlock said with a sneer. 

“Colleagues, Sherlock, you have colleagues, not handlers,” John corrected. 

“What's the difference?” Sherlock asked, he collapsed his head onto his arms dramatically. 

“Want me to come along?” John asked.

“Obviously,” Sherlock huffed from the tangle of his limbs. John just smiled, always amused at how such an arrogant, confident man could so easily be reduced to childish pouting. 

“I'll need to see about getting a proper sitter, but we can see if Mrs. Hudson is available in the meanwhile, okay?” John asked, he reached over and rested his hand gently on the back of the detectives neck. Sherlock let out a soft breath and John felt the man's tension ease as he worked his fingers gently into the pale skin. 

The sound of Sherlock's mobile vibrating from the end of the table broke the moment. John paused in his ministrations, but when the man made no move to untangle himself to answer John rolled his eyes and stood to retrieve it. 

“Mmm, leave it, you were busy,” Sherlock mumbled without bothering to look up. 

John shifted William in his arms and snagged up the device. “It's Lestrade,” he called, before pushing the answer button and holding the phone to his own ear. He knew better than to attempt to persuade Sherlock to answer a ringing phone. 

John greeted the Detective Inspector, who wasn't the least bit surprised to be speaking to the doctor rather than the detective himself. Greg congratulated him on the new position quickly before launching into the details of his real reason for calling, one body at the scene, another person missing or possibly kidnapped. Dobson wanted Sherlock on it as soon as possible. 

John jotted down the location and promised to dispatch Sherlock immediately before ringing off. 

“Good news you've got a case,” John said, pushing the notepad towards the dark-haired man. 

“Not interested,” Sherlock grumbled. 

“Sherlock, you've been cooped up too long and you're getting moody. This is the perfect thing, there's a body, you're working with Lestrade, it will be great,” John said. 

“What about you?” Sherlock asked, finally looking up at the doctor.

“I'll be here when you get back and you can tell me all about how stupid everyone was and how you solved the case just by looking at the side of the victims shoe,” John said as he moved into the sitting room.

“If I'm working with Lestrade then that means Anderson will probably be there,” Sherlock pointed out. 

“So?” John asked. 

“I can't work with Anderson, John. He is worse than useless, I need you there,” Sherlock said. He stood and followed John into the sitting room where the doctor was settling William onto his blanket for some tummy time. 

“Sherlock, we heard Mrs. Hudson leave earlier, I can't bring Will along to a crime scene. Just text me some pictures if you have questions,” John sighed. 

“She's visiting Mrs. Turner, they always have brunch on Saturdays,” Sherlock said. 

“Okay, well noted, but that hardly helps,” John said. 

Sherlock cut him off, “we can take William to her at Mrs. Turner's then you will be free to accompany me.”

“Sherlock,” John groaned, “we can't just pop in on her while she's visiting a friend to drop the baby off, It's not polite.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “we're needed to solve crimes, John. Dead bodies don't care for societal niceties.”

“You'll be fine, take the skull if you'd like,” John said with a grin. Sherlock was not so easily amused. 

“He's ceased to be an effective assistant, I need you. You're meant to be helping me with this,” Sherlock said, crossing his arms in frustration. 

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance. How he had found Sherlock's pouting endearing earlier was totally lost on him. 

“John,” Sherlock said softly, as he moved into the doctor's personal space, resting his hands on the shorter man's shoulders. 

John let his hand drop and looked up at the man now effectively crowding him. 

“I'd like you to come with me,” Sherlock said. 

“Sherlock,” John protested, weakly. The detective leaned down and pressed their lips together softly. It was gentle and hesitant, not brash and showy like John would have expected of his friend, and he quickly found himself pressing back into it eagerly. He was on the verge of parting his lips to deepen the kiss when Sherlock pulled back and rested their foreheads together. John watched him, eyes squeezed shut tightly as the man processed, categorized, and filed away every detail of the exchange. When the blue-green eyes met his once more John knew he was lost. 

“I guess we could ask,” he said. Sherlock grinned in triumph and swirled away to pocket his phone. John rolled his eyes, but couldn't hide the smirk Sherlock's antics put to his mouth. The man could quite possibly be the death of him. 

Ten minutes later John stood hesitantly outside of Mrs. Turner's building holding William close with one arm and a carry bag of baby essentials in the other. Sherlock gave him an exasperated look and moved passed to knock firmly on the door. John shifted his weight uneasily, this felt too intrusive for his liking, but Sherlock was entirely unaffected and only knocked louder when his patience wore thin. 

A young woman, probably in her early twenties, with long blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun answered the door and smiled warmly at the two of them. 

“Um, hello,” John stammered caught unprepared by the appearance of a much younger woman than he'd expected. 

“Hello yourself, are you here to see Aunt Elaine?” The girl asked, cocking her head slightly. 

“Actually, we thought our landlady Mrs. Hudson might be over paying a visit, any chance we could speak to her?” John asked. 

“Of course, come on in,” she smiled and moved aside to let them enter. John blushed awkwardly as he maneuvered around her, but Sherlock bustled right in and called out for Mrs. Hudson. 

“Sherlock? Is that you dear, we're in the sitting room,” Mrs. Hudson called back. 

“Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes? Like the detective fellow?” the girl asked John. 

“The very same,” John said with a hint of pride. 

Sherlock strode purposefully into the sitting room, but was sidelined as Mrs. Hudson insisted on introducing them both to Mrs. Turner's niece, Victoria. As soon as mandatory pleasantries had been exchanged Sherlock quickly changed the topic to the issue at hand, someone needed to sit with William while he and John went to solve a new case.

“Oh dear, I wish I'd known earlier, I have a doctor's appointment this afternoon or I would,” Mrs. Hudson said. 

“Right, what about you?” Sherlock asked rounding on the Mrs. Turner's niece. 

“Sorry, what?” Victoria asked, clearly bewildered. 

“Sherlock,” John warned, but it was to no avail. 

“You're a student, just moved into your aunt's building to be closer to school.. Judging by how you smiled when you noticed we had a baby with us you like children, take mostly morning classes and are looking for part-time work,” Sherlock continued. 

“I'm sorry, how do you know any of that?” she asked, looking at her aunt and Mrs. Hudson for assistance. Both women just gave sympathetic smiles. 

“Sorry about that, it's sort of what he does,” John said. 

“There was a school bag by the stairs when we came in, partially opened. The texts were too think for primary so university. You're at your Aunt's in the early afternoon, fully presentable save for the smeared ink on your hand from note taking, you've been in classes all morning and stopped in to see her on your way up to your rooms.” Sherlock asked. 

“That's quite impressive, but how did you know I was looking for work?” She asked. 

“You're a student living in London, of course you need work,” Sherlock said. John braced himself for shouting at Sherlock's flippant disregard for respecting sensitive personal topics, but to his surprised Victoria just laughed. 

“Well, you're not wrong there either. Alright Mr. Holmes when do you need me to start?”

“Immediately, Dr. Watson will give you his mobile number in case you need to ring him and Mrs. Hudson can let you into the flat before she goes to her appointment. Anything you might need until then is in William's bag,” Sherlock said, already turning to leave. 

“Wait? Just like that, don't you need to ask me any questions or check my references?” Victoria asked.

“No,” Sherlock said dismissively. 

“No?” John and Victoria asked. 

“Come on John, look at her, she's never even so much as considered a misdemeanor in her life. I'm sure Mrs. Turner can vouch for her if you insist, but do hurry, every minute we spend here is just more time for those monkey's in forensics to ruin the evidence,” Sherlock said. This time he really did turn and stride quickly out the door to go hail a cab. 

John felt his cheeks redden as he turned to face the ladies with a sheepish smile. 

“William, was it?” Victoria asked.

“Right, I'm so sorry about this,” John said quickly as he handed over the baby and bag before pulling out his notebook and jotting down both his and Sherlock's mobile's for the young woman. 

“He's even more interesting in person than the papers,” Victoria said. 

“You have no idea,” John replied. 

The scene of the crime ended up being a large house in Maida Vale in Northern Paddington. John tried not to gape openly at the opulence of his surroundings, but found he couldn't help himself. The bricked mansion clearly dated back to at least the Edwardian Era, which only made the sight of police tape cordoning off the area all the more offensive. 

Lestrade spotted them as John paid the cab and met them halfway to the door, immediately filling them in on the details. A elderly gentleman, Murray Walker, had been found dead in his kitchen that morning by his daughter, Maggie, who had come over to take her parents for breakfast. No sign of forced entry and the equally elderly mother, Bernice Walker, was nowhere to be found. Daughter says her Mum was fit and mentally sound, no dementia or other impairments. Nothing seems to be missing, so not a burglary. 

“No, they got what they came here to take,” Sherlock said as he swirled around the sitting room, crouching down to examine some dirt on the rug. 

“Right, care to fill me in?” Lestrade asked, he pulled out his pocket notebook to jot down the oncoming deductions. John did the same. 

“The woman, she was an avid gardener, look at the upkeep on the flower beds. The culprit came to steal her away early this morning, but the husband woke up and caught them in the act,” Sherlock said, moving to look out the window. John and Lestrade followed him to take a look as well. Sure enough the window gave a clear view of the flower boxes. Once he was satisfied that they had seen what he needed them to, Sherlock darted off to the kitchen and continued. 

“He saw her being attacked and went to phone the police, but the killer acted quickly and came right in the front door and cornered him here,” Sherlock turned in a circle scanning the kitchen. 

John spotted the phone, still on it's cradle over the kitchen counter. Mr. Walker had never reached his destination. His body lay sprawled on the floor, blood pooling on the tiles. 

“John?” Sherlock asked, indicating the body with a nod of his head. 

Anderson had been standing off to the side, arms crossed firmly over his chest. He stepped forward and handed John a pair of gloves without complaint. John nodded his thanks and pulled them on before squatting down to examine the body. 

“Blunt force trauma to the back of the head, signs of a preexisting cardiovascular condition so the sudden blood loss did him in,” John explained as he checked the mouth and nasal passageways for any other obstructions, “four to six hours ago.”

“Weapon?” Sherlock asked Lestrade. 

“Nothing so far,” the Detective Inspector admitted. 

“Check the back garden, it was probably rinsed off and tossed out the window,” Sherlock said. Greg gave a quick jerk of his head and one of his officers scurried to comply. 

“Wait, got something else here,” John called, carefully turning the deceased man's head to the right. There was a small drop of dried blood there which both men recognized immediately.

“Why inject him if they were just going to bash his head in?” Sherlock asked. 

“Injection site?” Anderson asked, stepping forward to take a look. He pulled his gloves on and examined the area John had indicated. John stood up straight taking the weight off his leg with a grunt. His limp might have been psychosomatic, but he was still forty. 

 

“Yes, recently made by our assailant. Not a normal spot for recreation or medicinal injections and it hasn't had time to properly scar over, so freshly made,” Sherlock explained offhandedly before quickly adding, “Good catch, John.”

John smiled despite his usual insistence that they remain stoically professional at crime sites, particularly when there was a body present. Lestrade cleared his throat, bringing the doctor's attention back to the Detective Inspector who raised an eyebrow at him. Fortunately, John was spared having to make any acknowledgment of Sherlock's sudden compliment by the return of Lestrade's officer carrying a large rolling pin. 

“Found this behind the pots,” He said, carefully putting the pin into a bag Lestrade had snagged from Anderson's kit. 

“Yeah, that would do the job,” Lestrade said peering through the bag to see if there were any visible blood remaining. 

“But why leave an unnecessary clue behind?” Sherlock asked. He paced frantically back to the sitting room retracing the steps the assailant had taken, “The blow to the back of the head would have been enough. What was in the needle?”

“Have to have a toxicology report run on this one too I guess,” Anderson said as he stood and removed his gloves. 

“This one,” Sherlock repeated with a frown. Suddenly his eyes widened, “Oh, that's unexpected, finally something interesting.”

“What do you mean, do you know what was in the needle?” Lestrade asked.

“Not yet, but I strongly suspect that Patricia Saunders may have an idea,” Sherlock said as he turned to go.

“Wait, who?” John asked, but it was no use, Sherlock was already through the door. John turned back to Lestrade and Anderson who both looked as perplexed as he felt. 

“Go on then,” Greg said with a sigh, “Give me a call if you find out anything.”

Patricia Saunders, it turns out, was the name of the dead woman who'd been found in the warehouse by the Thames. It was the same case Sherlock had been investigating when he'd been assigned to work with Donovan leading to John's dismissal from the clinic. He never had gotten all the details so Sherlock filled him in a bit on the cab ride over to Bart's. 

Saunders had been in her mid-thirties when she disappeared suddenly. Her fiance' had been the Met's primary suspect in the disappearance until he was able to supply an iron tight alibi for the afternoon when Ms. Saunders had gone missing. When she later turned up dead her body bore the signs of having been injected several times prior to her death, including the a large bruise where a needle had broken before it could be fully injected into her neck. The remnants of which Sherlock had discovered in the alley with William. Since Donovan had been working the case Sherlock had yet to see an official postmortem report. Luckily, he knew who to ask to get one. 

Molly greeted them both warmly as began asking how William was getting on before Sherlock cut her off to demand the report. She quickly went to fetch it for him then sat and caught up with John while the detective poured over her findings. 

“Traces of Rohypnol and Propranolol?” Sherlock asked, interrupting John's rundown of William's most recent baby checkup. 

“Yeah, I was going to save that one for you anyway. It's a bit of an odd mixture. I mean, you see plenty of Rohypnol when women get abducted, date-rape drug and all, but the Propranolol is a bit of a wild card,” Molly said. She quickly hopped up from her stool and went to peek over Sherlock's shoulder. 

“John, what would Propranolol typically be used for?” Sherlock asked as he continued reading. John stood up and walked over to take a look at the report for himself. 

“Depends, it's a reasonably strong beta blocker. I've seen it used to treat PTSD since it can dampen the emotional triggers of especially traumatic memories,” John said as he skimmed down to the cause of death, “Oh, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, didn't expect that.”

“Lung disease?” Sherlock asked, “could the Propranolol have been prescription then?”

“No,” John replied quickly, “It's contraindicated, too risky since it would slow the organs down making it even harder for the lungs to pull enough oxygen.”

“It's likely what aggravated her condition enough to kill her,” Molly offered. 

“And what relaxed Mr. Walker enough to allow an assailant who was physically weaker than himself to deliver a death blow,” Sherlock mused. 

“Am I calling Lestrade then?” John asked, already digging for his mobile. 

“Not necessary, we're going to the Yard. I need to speak with Mr. Walker's daughter,” Sherlock said as he stood and tucked the folder under his arm. Molly made a token protest, but Sherlock just declared it official police business and left John to apologize quickly before darting down the hallway after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've signed up for NaNoWriMo this year. As such I've been (poorly) dividing my time between plotting out a quick novel and trying to find a way to wrap this story up so that I don't completely leave you guys hanging for a month. 
> 
> I've pretty much given up on the idea of being able to get where I'm going with this story in the next two chapters, so I'm toying with the idea of making this into a series and having part one end right before November and picking up part two in December. I'm expecting to write up another chapter or two to tie up some loose ends so this can stand on it's own somewhat.
> 
> Apologies for having to take a detour just when things finally start to get interesting. Hopefully I'll be able to make this last part exciting enough to encourage you all to rejoin for the next bit. Thanks for sticking with me this long, all your comments and encouragement have been most appreciated.


	19. Crossed Communication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The questioning of Mr. Walker's daughter goes poorly and John and Sherlock have a misunderstanding of their own.

The young Ms. Walker was in her late 20's with short auburn hair and what John was certain were typically lovely features when they weren't fraught with grief. Dimmock had already taken her statement while Lestrade's team finished up at the crime scene and she had just been about to leave when Sherlock arrived and demanded a moment of her time. Dimmock was more than a bit apprehensive about letting the detective question the girl while she was so clearly vulnerable, but John swore he'd do his best to keep Sherlock as civil as possible. A pointed glare at the detective had earned him a nod of acceptance of this plan as well as copious amounts of eye rolling. 

“I've already told the other detective everything I know,” Ms. Walker said softly, “I came round to pick my parents up to take them to breakfast and my dad was.” 

She broke off in a sob, Sherlock cleared his throat impatiently and John glared daggers at him before turning back to Ms. Walker. “Do you have any idea who might have done this? Anyone who might've held a grudge against your parents?” John asked. 

“No, they were the kindest people I've ever met. Everyone loved them,” Ms. Walker said with a sniff. 

“How long ago did they adopt you?” Sherlock asked suddenly. 

“I'm sorry?” She asked looking bewildered. 

“You were adopted, how long ago?” Sherlock asked again sounding annoyed. 

“Sherlock,” John warned, but the detective paid him no mind. 

“Back when I was thirteen, but how did you know?” Maggie asked with a frown as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. 

“Photographs at your parent's house, you don't resembled either of them,” Sherlock stated. 

“People used to say I looked a bit like Mum, but I guess they were just being polite,” Maggie said.

“Yes, clearly,” Sherlock continued, “any siblings?”

“Not officially, no,” Maggie said carefully. 

“Unofficially?” John asked, put off by the ambiguity. 

Maggie smiled as if her explanation was well rehearsed from having to make it so many times prior, “My parents took in a lot of foster children over the years. They'd all become part of our family, if only for a little while. Mum would have adopted them all if she could.”

“But in the end, they only officially adopted you, why?” Sherlock asked. John gave him a soft jab with his knee under the table in reprimand. Sherlock gave him a surprised look, but Maggie answered before he could ask why John was kicking at him.

“By the time they could afford it I had already been with them for three years. Mum said she couldn't bare to part with me after all that time,” Maggie said, her eyes welled up with tears once more. 

“Have you remained in contact with any of the foster children whom your parents sent away?” Sherlock asked, pointedly ignoring John's grunt of annoyance at his continual refusal to be tactful. 

“They weren't sent away, my parents did their best to have them all place in good homes. Most of them still pop by to visit from time to time,” Maggie said, her voice rising. 

“Are you sure not one of them harbors any ill-will at not being adopted by your parents? Surely, not all of them managed to be adopted out of the system,” Sherlock pressed. John kicked him again, harder this time. 

“That's ridiculous, my parents loved all the children they took in and they always did their best to get everyone placed. Nobody could fault them if a few kids aged out before they could be adopted,” Maggie insisted as tears flowed freely down her cheeks. 

“Why do you keep kicking me?” Sherlock asked John, ignoring Ms. Walker's outburst. 

“Alright, you're done,” John said pushing his chair back and standing. 

“Am I?” Sherlock asked raising an eyebrow. 

“Out, now!” John insisted as he pulled Sherlock's chair out with the detective still seated. 

“Fine,” Sherlock said with a huff as he stood and made his way to the door. He stepped out and was turning to complain to John about his interference when the door snapped shut in his face. He intended to march right back in and demand that John follow him when he was intercepted by Dimmock. 

“What the hell were you saying to her? Looked like she was liable to throw the table at you,” Dimmock asked angrily, gesturing at the window to the private office where interviews were conducted. The blinds were half drawn and the glass was tinted to give the illusion of privacy to the occupants in the room, but the young D.I. had been watching the whole exchange. 

Sherlock looked back in the room and watched as John moved around the other side of the table and leaned over to speak quietly to Maggie. Her anger flashed once more, than strangely disappeared as John spoke with her. Eventually she stood and seemed to be thanking him for his help. John nodded and went to shake her hand, but Maggie stepped close and hugged him tightly. Surprised, John patted her on the back awkwardly until she let him go and exited the room. 

Dimmock moved to escort her to the front to call her a cab while Sherlock stood waiting for John to join him. 

“That was really unnecessary,” John scolded as he left the room and pulled his jacket on. 

“I agree,” Sherlock said, pulling his Belstaff around himself, “fraternizing with witnesses could compromise our investigation.”

“Come again?” John asked, hurrying to catch up with Sherlock's longer strides. The berk clearly took such long steps on purpose, John was sure. 

“It would be best if you didn't let your obvious attraction to Ms. Walker interfere with the work, John,” Sherlock replied as he made his way to the lift. He stepped inside and hit the button for the ground floor, John was barely able to slide in before the doors dinged shut. 

“Sherlock, what are you on about?” John asked reaching out to grab the detective's hand. Sherlock pulled away abruptly. 

“She practically threw herself on you when I left the room,” Sherlock said crossing his arms over himself. 

“Yeah, because you really upset her and I convinced her that even though you're a complete dick sometimes you're the best chance she's got at finding her mum,” John snapped. 

Sherlock said nothing, but when the doors opened he was off like a flash. John had to practically jog to keep up with his pace. John called out to him to slow down, but he got stopped by a mail cart and between apologizing to the elderly lady pushing it and having to go around another cubicle Sherlock managed to make it to the door without him. 

Cursing under his breath John ran outside and just managed to catch up to Sherlock as he was sliding into a cab. 

“Hey,” John said, catching the door, “why didn't you wait for me?”

“Take the next one, I need to think,” Sherlock ordered. 

“The hell with that, move over, you can think on your side,” John said. Sherlock made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat, but slid over to allow John to sit beside him. 

They rode back to the flat in silence. John was burning to ask Sherlock what the hell that little outburst had been about, but he'd be dammed if he was about to have a row in the back seat of a cab. Some matters are best settled in private. 

When they pulled up to the kerb in front of 221 B Sherlock exited the cab quickly, leaving John to pay the fare. Mrs. Hudson's door was shut tight and she didn't pop her head out to see who had arrived so John was willing to bet that the landlady was still out. Sherlock opened the door to the flat and made a beeline for his bedroom, completely ignoring a startled Victoria who had been singing to William in the sitting room. Sherlock's door shut firmly as John walked into the sitting room. 

“The case not go well then?” Victoria asked as she scooped William up and stood. 

“Could've been better,” John admitted with a scowl in the direction of Sherlock's room. 

“Well, since you're back I thought it might be a good time to go over my duties,” Victoria said as she held the babe out to his father. John accepted the boy warmly and snuggled him, his mood improving dramatically as Will smiled up at him. The smiling when John returned was still a relatively new occurrence and probably the doctor's favorite development to date. 

“Right, tea?” John asked as he rocked the boy gently.

Victoria turned out to be fantastically qualified for the position she'd accidentally found herself in. She was majoring in early childhood education and, as Sherlock had already deduced, had moved here recently to attend morning classes at the university. As such, she admitted, her social life was pretty much nonexistent and she was free from about eleven thirty each day. She and John spent the next hour figuring out the details of when she would be come over and how he could reach her if something came up after her usual hours. They even managed to agree on her wage, with both sides feeling that they had made out quite reasonably. Once the tea had been drunk and schedules exchanged, Victoria bid the doctor a good day and went back to fill her Aunt in on the details of her exciting new employ. 

John noticed William yawning and gave the boy a fresh diaper before taking him upstairs to settle him for a little kip. When he came back down to the sitting room Sherlock was watching him from his armchair. 

“Ah good, you planning to fill me in on what happened back at the Yard?” John asked, crossing his arms as he stood in front of his friend. 

“In retrospect, I may have miscalculated,” Sherlock said. 

“What do you mean?” John asked, but was cut off by his mobile buzzing from his pocket.

“Stay right there,” he ordered, worried that the detective would flee again if left unsupervised. John glanced down at the caller ID and frowned. 

Harry hadn't bothered to call him back in the two months since he'd come to collect Will's things. It just figures that she'd finally decide to call at the most inconvenient time. John hit the silent button to send the call to voice mail. He could deal with his wayward sister later. 

“Right, now from the beginning, what happened back there,” John asked turning back to Sherlock, only to take a sudden step back when he realized the detective had stood and followed him across the room. 

“I miscalculated. When I saw how that lady reacted to you, it was disconcerting,” Sherlock said softly.

John paused as he processed this admission before frowning slightly, “Wait, you were jealous?”

“Must we attach petty sounding words to every emotion now?” Sherlock groaned. 

“Only if you're going to act like a total git for no good reason,” John said with a soft chuckle. Sherlock huffed and turned to move away, but John grabbed his arm and held firm until the man turned back to face him, perfectly arched eyebrow raised in challenge.

“Listen Sherlock, I'm with you,” John said solemnly, “I'm with you because I want to be, because I want to give this a chance. I'm not going to just cast you off because someone else shows interest, okay?”

Sherlock's sharp features softened as the doctor spoke. John could see the man's emotions flickering deep in his eyes, but the typically verbose detective remained silent as if he couldn't find the words for any of them. In the end his face drew down in misery. 

“Hey, what is it? Tell me.” John said pulling the man close. Sherlock leaned into the embrace and rested his head on John's shoulder. John hugged him tighter, his concern growing as each silent second ticked by. Sherlock slowly raised his head as if to speak and John turned to look at him carefully, only to be assaulted by the man's lips pressing into his own. 

John froze for a moment, caught unprepared by Sherlock's sudden intensity. The detective held him close and snogged him like a dying man gasping for breath. It was fierce and desperate and John didn't know if he should struggle to free himself to demand answers or just give into the sudden tsunami of affection that was currently his flatmate. 

Sherlock's tongue teased his lips until he parted them with a soft gasp and then they were exploring each others mouths. The man even tasted posh, John thought with a smirk, like expensive tea and mint. The detective's enthusiasm made up for his evident lack of experience as he moved them across the room until John was pressed back against the wall. Deciding this was his chance, John reached up and rested his hands on Sherlock's neck to deepen and slow the kiss. 

This being his first time to properly kiss another bloke, John was determined to do it right. Sherlock paused in his own explorations as John languidly kissed along the man's jaw before parting his lips and resuming the kiss at a much more leisurely and enjoyable pace. No sense rushing things, John reasoned. He was so lost in the surrealism of the moment, he was actually snogging Sherlock Holmes, when the hell had this become his life? John almost didn't notice as Sherlock's hands left his shoulders and moved down to his waist, then to his belt. Almost. 

“Hey, take it slow,” John said pulling back from Sherlock's kiss, his hands dropping to grab his belt. 

“It's fine,” Sherlock insisted leaning back in to press a kiss to the underside of the doctor's jaw.

“Not a race,” John admonished tilting his head to allow the taller man better access. Sherlock went for John's belt again, this time John pushed his hands off and stepped away.

“Whoa, time out,” John said. 

“John, it's fine,” Sherlock insisted, “contrary to what my brother would have people believe I'm not actually a virgin.”

“That's,” John looked flustered, “okay, that's good information to have actually, but not really the point.”

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself,” Sherlock said, it almost sounded like an accusation. 

“Yeah, I was, but we said we were going to take this slow. Shagging like teenagers on the sofa isn't my idea of taking things slow,” John replied. 

“Why?” Sherlock demanded. He turned away to pace towards the window, his hand tugging at his hair the way he always did when he'd grown frustrated. 

“Why don't I want to shag on the sofa?” John asked, perplexed. He fixed his belt while he watched the detective storm past again. 

“What's the point of 'taking it slow'? If the end result is the biological desire for intercourse and you seem to have no trouble expressing at least limited physical attraction to me, then why did you stop me?” Sherlock asked. 

“Wait, is that all this is to you? Some sort of bloody biological imperative?” John asked. 

“That's the logical outcome of any romantic relationship John, you really should know that after partaking in so many,” Sherlock said as he continued to pace furiously. John groaned in frustration, he couldn't seem to keep up with Sherlock's mood from one second to the next, how could they ever make a relationship like theirs work?

“Intimacy is the logical outcome of a successful relationship, that doesn't necessarily equate to intercourse,” John said sharply, “believe it or not I like to have a bit of a foundation built before I try to get a leg over.”

Sherlock stopped pacing and studied John carefully. John wasn't quite sure if the additional scrutiny was because he'd said something particularly profound or just perplexing. Either way he appreciated a calm calculating Sherlock over a manic pacing one. Less collateral damage, typically. 

“You consider intimacy to be separate from intercourse then?” Sherlock asked finally. 

“Of course, don't you?” John asked. Sherlock turned away with a noncommittal shrug. He walked over to his violin case and opened it up, taking the instrument in his hands, seemingly unaware that John didn't consider the matter quite settled yet. Mulling it over, John felt a lingering question nagging at the back of his mind. Sherlock had begun playing pizzicato by the time he finally found words to voice his sudden realization. 

“How many relationships have you had, roughly?” John asked. The string Sherlock had just plucked muted quickly leaving the room silent. 

“I told you John, I'm not a virgin,” Sherlock said, still facing the window. 

“You did, but that's not what I asked,” John replied carefully. 

“What criteria denotes a relationship?” Sherlock asked, his hand seemed to be clutching more tightly to the violin as he waited. John considered the question, this had to be worded just right or he was certain Sherlock would just lob the query aside. 

“Two people who consider themselves a couple,” John finally said. 

“Then none,” Sherlock said as he bent down to replace the instrument in it's case. 

“Ever?” John asked incredulously, surely someone had attempted to woo Sherlock at some point. The man was built like a Greek statue for God's sake. 

“That would be the implication of the word 'none',” Sherlock said sharply. He turned and glared at John, arms crossed over himself protectively. 

“Oh,” John said, because that was all he could think to say as the implication sunk in. No wonder Sherlock seemed confused about John's insistence on building intimacy if he'd never had any before. 

“Go on then,” Sherlock snorted throwing his hands up as his manic side reared up again, “go ahead and laugh at how 'spectacularly ignorant' I am about yet another basic human experience. I'm sure your blog readers would love to hear about it.”

Sherlock made to storm past John towards his bedroom, but the doctor recognized the movement and jumped to block his path. 

“Sherlock, wait,” John pleaded. 

“Don't worry, I'm sure the Yarders will print out the best bits to read out to me later,” Sherlock practically spat as he attempted to shove past the smaller man. John might have lacked his friend's height and reach, but his lower center of gravity had proven to be a great equalizer many times over, now was no exception. He wrapped his arms firmly around Sherlock and forced him back a step. Sherlock struggled to shove him off, but realized that it could only end with them both toppled on the floor where John would have an even greater advantage so he instead went rigid. Once John felt the fight leave his friend he moved closer into the awkward embrace and rested his head against Sherlock. 

“I'm sorry, I didn't know,” John said.

“It doesn't matter,” Sherlock said, not quite ready to give up on being angry. 

“No, it doesn't,” John said as he pulled back from the embrace just enough to force Sherlock to meet his eyes, “except that a lot of this is new for you and that can be confusing.”

“Really John, I'm not a child,” Sherlock scoffed. 

“I know,” John said with a smile, “but the fact is that some of this is new for me too.”

Reasonably certain that the man wouldn't bolt as soon as he was freed John released his hold and took a step back to size up his flatmate. Sherlock seemed to be, possibly, attempting to consider things from John's perspective. John stood his ground letting Sherlock take in all his uncertainty and lingering doubts about his sudden late-in-life sexuality shift. Finally, seemingly satisfied that John wasn't just taking the piss to calm him Sherlock nodded and John felt himself relax again. 

“So what do you propose?” Sherlock asked finally. 

“Like I said, we take things slow and try to be patient with each other while we work out the details,” John replied. 

“That sounds, reasonable,” Sherlock said. 

“Good,” John said with a smile. They stood like that a moment, neither sure what to do now that they had seemingly resolved the latest crisis. 

Finally, Sherlock cleared his throat before asking, “the kissing was good though?”

“It was,”John smirked as he eyed the detective's cool demeanor. Much as Sherlock thought himself a master of disguise and subterfuge, the man was absolute shite at hiding his excitement from his best friend. 

“I wouldn't be opposed to more, if you were interested” Sherlock said carefully as he watched John for a reaction. 

John grinned mischievously before pulling the taller man down to him again.


	20. The Ties that Bind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow everything begins to come together and fall apart at exactly the same time.

“John,” Sherlock moaned loudly as his head tilted back. 

“Don't say it,” John warned. 

“But, John,” Sherlock carried on. 

“Sherlock,” John replied, sternly. 

“I'm bored,” Sherlock finished with a great sigh as he threw his arms over the back of the park bench. Some mums who'd been chatting across the playground from them paused to look over as if trying to see what all the fuss was about before resuming their conversation. Likely now about the peculiar men with the baby sitting across the way, John mused. 

“I told you that you didn't have to come along,” John admonished as he broke off another bit of bread and tossed it to the assorted pigeons milling about. William waved enthusiastically at the birds making excited gurgling noises all the while. 

“What was I supposed to do back at the flat by myself?” Sherlock asked. He moved himself more upright, but kept his arms behind the bench as he studied John. 

“How am I supposed to know? Whatever you usually do when I'm not around,” John said. He placed a bit of bread in Will's tiny fist and tried to get the boy to fling it to the birds, but the baby instead hardened his grip and gurgled louder. 

“Dull,” Sherlock replied dryly. 

“Look it's the first day this week that it hasn't been raining all afternoon. Will needed some fresh air and I needed a break from filling in that report on the Walker case,” John said, “Do us a favor and just try to enjoy the moment, yeah?”

“What is ordinary people's fascination with dull mundane moments? Nothing is even happening,” Sherlock complained. 

John was about to protest, when he caught the hint of a smile playing at the corner of the detective's lips. Sherlock was just trying to get a rise out of him, silly git really needed to find a better source of entertainment. Deciding that Sherlock would not be getting his way this time, John slid closer on the bench under Sherlock's arm. Sherlock looked surprised a moment before smiling smugly and resting his arm around the doctor.

“Better?” John asked, with a shy smile of his own.

“Much,” Sherlock replied as he cast his gaze out across the park. 

The women were still deeply engrossed in conversation as the stale roll John had brought along finally ran out. The birds pecked around a bit more, just in case they had missed something, but slowly began to wander away. John watched William wave about at them as they went. 

“What's that woman doing,” Sherlock asked suddenly, pulling the doctor's attention away from his son. 

John scanned the area, in addition to the two ladies he'd noticed earlier sitting across from them there was now another person standing near the playground. She looked more like a lanky teen wearing a dark grey hoodie with the hood up and baggy jeans. Frankly, if Sherlock hadn't said so, John would have had to guess at a gender since he couldn't see her face from this angle. 

The women crouched down and seemed to be summoning one of the playing children over to her. 

“Dunno, could be the Mum, I suppose,” John replied watching as one of the children, a small boy maybe all of three years old noticed the women and began walking over to her. The other child bounded off to climb the slide again while the Mum's on the bench continued to be oblivious to all. 

“Nonsense, his mother is the one with the ghastly shade of lipstick,” Sherlock replied. 

John didn't bother to ask how he knew, he'd been around Sherlock long enough to know that even if the man was just guessing, chances are he was right. 

“Could be another relative or something,” John said, though even he wasn't terribly convinced as he stood hesitantly. Sherlock stood as well, squinting at something. 

“Get the mother,” Sherlock said. 

John was about to reply when the woman in the hoodie suddenly swept forward and grabbed the child up. Sherlock took off running after them and John was left awkwardly holding William and feeling like he'd just missed the start of a race. 

“Stop,” Sherlock yelled as he chased after the woman. The boy bounced wildly in her arms shrieking all the while. 

John jumped to action racing over to the Mum's frantically ordering them to call the police, they looked at him like he was mad before the one with the ugly lipstick realized her son was nowhere to be seen. Jumping up she began yelling the boy's name as she ran toward the playground. The other mum screamed for her own child before whipping out a mobile and calling for help. 

Satisfied that backup was on the way John jogged carefully in the direction he'd last seen Sherlock go, past the trees at the edge of the park benched area. The boy's mum followed after him wailing and crying deliriously as she continued to call for her son. William was startled by all the shouting and had begun crying as well. 

John's heart thudded in his chest as he called for Sherlock over and over. The treeline broke and they found themselves on a jogging trail around a pond. 

“Where did they go?” The woman cried. 

“I don't know, I've lost them,” John replied feeling himself growing increasingly panicked. What if the woman had a weapon or accomplice? What if Sherlock was hurt?

“John!” A familiar deep baritone broke his dark thoughts as he spun and saw Sherlock, still flushed from running walking towards them holding a very distraught child. 

The woman shoved past John and rushed to her son, both crying as she accepted him from Sherlock's arms and began checking him over for harm.

“Police should be on their way,” John said as he looked the detective over as well, “Are you okay?”

Sherlock nodded and huffed in a lung full of air again, “She set the boy down and ran off to the bus stop. I lost her.”

“Thank you so much, I can't believe what almost happened,” The woman sobbed as she held her son close. Her friend was shouting for her and they all began making their way back toward the playground to wait for a constable so they could give statements. As they walked Sherlock finally regained his breath and nudged John with his elbow to silently get the doctor's attention. John glanced over at him questioningly, still trying to soothe William, as Sherlock produced what appeared to be a small medicinal vial from his coat pocket. 

“Where?” John asked before Sherlock shushed him, clearly not wanting the women to hear. 

“Dropped with the child, seems like the Walker assailant was trying to collect another victim,” Sherlock whispered. 

“Oh God,” John said as he clutched William tightly, “We need to call Lestrade.”

“Not yet, I need to check it first,” Sherlock replied, pocketing the vial once more. John worried his lip a moment, before deciding Sherlock was right and nodding his consent. 

The constable who finally showed up was a smallish lady with a pinched face. Sherlock and John gave their statements, with a few extra insights and observations from Sherlock. Neither mentioned the vial they'd discovered or the possible connection to the on-going murder/abduction case. Until they were certain of the connection there was no point in involving more innocent people. As soon as they were dismissed they got a cab and went directly to Bart's. 

John chatted with Molly and got William fed and changed while Sherlock worked in the chemistry lab. The baby had finally settled again and was starting to doze when Sherlock shoved through the doors startling him awake. John glared daggers at him and the detective had enough decency to look apologetic as he reached for the boy. 

“It's a match, rohypnol with traces of propranolol, just like with Walker and Saunders, but why?” Sherlock asked as his body swayed back and forth, rocking William. The boy calmed once more and snuggled into Sherlock's shirt. 

“Whatever it is it's not prescription. Someone is experimenting,” John said, glad to let his arms have a rest from holding the baby for a bit. 

“It's not lethal, well except for Ms. Saunders, but only because it aggravated her condition,” Molly chipped in. 

“Okay, so they aren't trying to kill people, just, what? Confuse them? Make them black out and forget things?” John asked. 

“John, you said propranolol is used to treat Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?” Sherlock asked. 

John hesitated before nodding. In truth it had been one of the drugs his therapist had tried, unsuccessfully, to get him to take when he'd returned from Afghanistan. He didn't like the way it made him feel numb. 

“It can, dampen traumatic memories. Make them easier for people to deal with. Some research suggests it can even alter memories in a limited way, possibly changing how people perceive them, but they'd need a lot more research before they could find any conclusive proof of that,” John said. 

“Maybe someone is impatient to find out,” Sherlock mused. 

John considered this a moment before he heard his mobile ring in his pocket. He fished it out and saw Harry's name come up on the caller ID, he never had bothered to call her back before. Figuring that he might as well get it over with while they were on somewhat of a break he waved the phone at Sherlock and made his way out to the hall for a small amount of privacy. Sherlock gave no indication of having noticed John stepping out as he continued to rock the baby and think. 

Bracing himself John took a deep breath as the door fell shut behind him before hitting the button to answer the call. 

“John?” Harry asked, she sounded disoriented. Probably hungover, John thought with a frown. 

“Yeah, What did you need Harry?”

“Oh, John! I tried to call you before, at least I think I did,” she said quickly, stumbling over her words. 

“You did, I've been busy,” John said tersely. 

“Something is wrong with me John, I don't know who else I can go to,” Harry said, her voice bordering on hysteria. 

“Slow down, what's the matter?” John asked with a sigh. 

“I'm not sure. I'll be feeling fine and then I just wake up and don't know where I've been or what I've been doing. Everything feels all muddled in my head, I think I'm sick or something,” Harry said. 

John took another deep breath to try to reign in his temper. The silence stretched on the line. 

“John, are you there? What's wrong with me, what should I do?” Harry sobbed. 

“Harry, you're an alcoholic, you're probably just having blackouts from drinking too much,” John replied, trying to keep his tone even and detached. 

“It's not that, I know that pissed drunk feels like John, this is different, something is wrong with me,” Harry insisted. 

“Well, you're not wrong about that,” John replied dryly. 

“What's that supposed to mean?” Harry asked defensively. John could picture her in his mind, hand on her hip, jaw jutted out ready for a fight. He wasn't in the mood to give her one.

“Look Harry, I can't do this anymore, okay?” John asked. He leaned against the wall lifting he hand to rest against his forehead. 

“What do you mean? Why won't you help find out what's happening to me?” Harry cried. That was the last straw. 

“Will's fine, by the way, not that you asked,” John snapped. 

“The baby?” Harry asked, she sounded well and truly confused. 

“Yeah the baby, Clara's baby, remember? The one you wanted, until things got rough then you just wanted someone else to take care of him, the one you haven't visited or voluntarily asked after since he was born,” John could hear his voice rising, but he didn't care,”my son, that baby.”

“Why are you telling me this? I called you for help and you're just trying to make me feel terrible,” Harry said accusingly. 

“Maybe you should feel terrible for a bit,” John said, balling his hand into a fist,”Not everything is about you anymore. I have my own life and a baby to take care of now, I can't just drop everything because you haven't learned the concept of moderation.”

The line went dead as Harry disconnected. John swore and banged his fist against the wall in frustration. He shut his eyes and tried to calm his nerves, not even looking up when he heard the door open and fall softly shut again.

“John?” an all too familiar baritone called out to him. 

John just took another deep breath to steady himself before he felt arms wrap around him pulling him against the detective. He immediately reciprocated the embrace, resting his forehead against Sherlock's chest while he waited for some of the tension in his body to ease. 

“She always does this, always pushing me to my breaking point,” John mumbled. 

“All the more reason to be glad her contact with you is so infrequent,” Sherlock said, still holding him close. 

“She doesn't even care about William, how can she not even care?” John asked, looking up at Sherlock helplessly. 

“Because she's not you. Not everyone can be so foolishly brave,” Sherlock said softly. 

“Not sure if you're insulting me or complimenting me,” John admitted with a chuckle. 

“Always both, but for what it's worth I think William got the better deal with you,” Sherlock said with a smug grin as he looked down fondly at the doctor before leaning in so he could plant a chaste kiss on the man's lips. Small gestures spoke volumes for John Watson, he just hoped Sherlock knew him well enough to understand. 

Their quiet moment was interrupted by a rather poorly faked cough down the hall. 

They turned as D.I. Lestrade exited the lift just to their left. For his part, Greg looked just as surprised to see them as they were to see him. John pulled back quickly trying to put a little distance between himself and Sherlock, but it was obvious Greg had seen plenty. 

“Just stopping by to pick up a report” Lestrade said as he slid past and pushed the door open, stepping into the morgue. 

“Oh God,” John muttered, “not exactly how I planned to come out.”

“Not good?” Sherlock asked curiously. If Sherlock was even capable of being embarrassed clearly public displays of affection were not among the ways to go about it, John decided. 

“More like awkward as hell, but Greg's our mate. I would have liked to break it to him over a pint, but it's not like he'll freak out over it, right?” John asked. 

“Unlikely, judging by the way he talks about my brother,” Sherlock replied with a conspiratorial wink.

“Okay, eww,” John laughed as he pushed the door to follow behind Greg. 

Molly and Greg were cooing over William, seemingly wrapped up in anything not having to do with what Greg had just witnessed in the hallway. Greg scooped the boy up and snuggled him. 

“Oh, you're here for your autopsy,” Molly said quickly, as if suddenly remember that Lestrade hadn't just happened by to check on the baby, “well obviously not yours because you're not dead, but the one you ordered for the person who is dead.”

“Molly,” Sherlock chided, still unable to hide his annoyance when she rambled awkwardly. 

“Right, sorry, back in a jiff,” she said darting off toward her office at the back of the lab. 

“Nice girl,” Lestrade commented. 

“Yes, until she insists on making small talk,” Sherlock complained. 

The silence that followed threatened to become awkward until John broke it abruptly. “We've found something,” 

He filled Lestrade in on their adventure earlier that afternoon. When he got to the part about Sherlock rescuing the boy Lestrade grinned and patted the detective on the back firmly. 

“Always knew you had it in you,” Greg said. Sherlock just rolled his eyes. 

When John got to the part about the vial and the chemicals within Sherlock quickly began pacing and going over potential motives. Lestrade tried to help, but Sherlock quickly dismissed all his suggestions. Molly rejoined them and gave Greg his file while John took the still sleeping baby back in his arms. 

“I can't think here,” Sherlock declared suddenly, “Let's go, John.”

John scoffed at the detective's theatrics, but comforted himself with the fact that at least Sherlock was actually giving him a chance to collect himself before having to chase after him again. 

“Little help here,” John said. He was trying to secure a strap on the carrier while holding William at a comfortable angle so the boy wouldn't wake up. Greg moved to go help him, but Sherlock spun back from the door without so much as a token protest and secured the strap before putting his arms around the doctor to make sure the harness was tightened. John felt his cheeks warm as he noticed Greg watching them with a silly grin on his face. Sherlock just gave Molly a nod and told Lestrade he'd call if they made any significant progress before striding off. John just mumbled a quick farewell before Greg could ask. 

Sherlock continued muttering quietly to himself all the way out to the street and the throughout the cab ride home. John didn't bother trying to contribute to the conversation. When they arrived back at the flat John paid the fare before leading Sherlock upstairs. The detective was in case mode which meant he paid little attention to his surroundings. John had his arm around Sherlock's waist as he pushed open the door to 221B and spotted their visitor. 

Mycroft and John both looked surprised. John because he hadn't expected to find anyone in their sitting room and Mycroft because of John's curiously familiar proximity to his younger brother. John stopped short, jarring Sherlock back to full awareness. Sherlock blinked as he took in his surroundings then frowned as he spotted his brother sitting in his armchair. 

“Go away, Mycroft,” Sherlock spat. 

“I did try calling you,” Mycroft said in his usual measured cadence. 

“Yes, I had hoped my refusal to answer would be enough of an indication that I had no desire to speak with you,” Sherlock replied as he made his way to the sofa. 

“I'll just make some tea then,” John grumbled. William was beginning to stir anyway so a bottle was also in order. He unhooked the carrier and set William down in his basket before moving to the kitchen. 

“Just for me thanks, Mycroft won't be staying,” Sherlock called after the doctor as he fell back into his 'thinking pose.'

“It has been a most trying few days dear brother, I would be most appreciative of your attention now,” Mycroft said, John detected a slight threat in his tone and scowled at the man. 

“Just deliver whatever information you've deemed so important and then be on your way then,” Sherlock replied. 

“Very well, our father has passed away, “ Mycroft said expressionlessly. John dropped the tea tin onto the counter at the sudden revelation, but Sherlock said nothing, his face a careful mask of indifference. 

“The funeral will be this weekend at the country estate. I'll send a car for you, expect to be gone at least two days,” Mycroft continued. 

“That won't be necessary,” Sherlock said with a huff, “I'm not going.”

“Now is really not the time for your acts of rebellion Sherlock, we are his heirs therefore we are expected to attend,” Mycroft said. 

“I'm sure you will be more than enough to represent our family's good name,” Sherlock replied as he sat up to glare at his elder brother. 

“Mummy wants you there,” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock glowered at him a moment his face twitching in anger before he fell passive once more, “Fine, but John is coming along as well. I cannot tolerate being sequestered for a whole weekend with our family.”

“Do you think that wise?” Mycroft asked. 

“Do you think I care?” Sherlock retorted. 

The kettle clicked off as the brothers fell into one of their silent arguments both sizing each other up as if looking to find a weakness to seize upon. John knew better than to intervene and instead busied himself with carrying out a tea tray. He set it down on the table and scooped up William and the prepared bottle and took a seat in the empty space next to Sherlock. Sherlock didn't so much as blink, but Mycroft's eyes narrowed on the doctor. John ignored him and began feeding the baby. 

“I'll let you get back to work then,” Mycroft said stiffly as he stood and collected his umbrella. 

“Very well,” Sherlock replied with a 'shooing' gesture. 

Mycroft didn't even look back as he made his way to the door. John waited until he heard footsteps on all 17 steps and the front door opening and shutting before he dared a glance at the detective. Sherlock let out a breath slowly before standing and walking swiftly into his bedroom and shutting the door behind him. 

John worried his bottom lip as he considered his options. He wanted to go after Sherlock and comfort him, but he knew how aloof the man could be during times of distress. It was possible the sleuth just needed some time alone to process. William was nearly finished with his bottle and John was just talking himself into going over and asking Sherlock if he needed anything when the bedroom door opened and Sherlock emerged wearing a pullover and jeans. John's jaw dropped as he'd so infrequently seen the man in anything other than a sharp suit or pyjama's that his brain was slow to process that a casually dressed Sherlock looked a good 5 or 6 years younger. 

“I'm going for a walk,” Sherlock declared. 

“Okay,” John replied, unsure how he was supposed to respond he asked, “did you want me to come with you?”

“No,” Sherlock said firmly as he walked out the door. John hesitated only a moment before pulling out his mobile and shooting Mycroft a text. 

'He's going out alone, should I be worried?'

He didn't have long to wait for a reply.

'I should think this qualifies as a danger night, Dr. Watson. You know what to do.'

John sighed and settled in on the sofa with his son.Once William had finished eating and been given a fresh diaper John left him to play a bit while he did a cursory search of Sherlock's room. He didn't expect to find anything and he was not disappointed. He made sure not to disturb Sherlock's sock index while he was at it since he knew the detective would be annoyed enough just knowing the doctor had felt the need to search. 

After a quick once over the rest of the flat John settled in with his laptop and fished up the initial report on the Walker case, giving it a final read through before emailing it on to Dobson. After that he mostly killed time by tidying up the flat and playing with William. The nice weather from earlier that afternoon had passed by and John could hear the sound of rain pelting against the windows. He checked his phone, but found no new texts from either Mycroft or Sherlock as the evening wore on. 

About an hour after he'd put William down for the night, John was sitting in his chair trying to read when he finally heard the door downstairs creak open. He breathed a relieved sigh as he set aside the book he'd somehow managed to dog-ear without having absorbed more than a few sentences. 

Sherlock stepped through the door and looked up at the waiting doctor. 

“Hey,” John said. 

Sherlock stood there dripping onto the floor, he was soaked through to the bone. He pulled the door closed behind him and leaned back against it. John stood and approached him carefully, the way he'd approach a wounded animal. Sherlock watched him warily. 

“Are you okay?” John finally asked. 

“I'm fine,” Sherlock replied, still dripping. 

“Come get changed, you'll catch pneumonia like that,” John said, reaching to take Sherlock's hand and guide him. He was more than a little concerned when Sherlock offered no resistance and just followed passively along behind him. 

John escorted the man to his bedroom and when Sherlock made no move to do more than stand John reached over to remove his sopping pullover. The taller man only wore a thin t-shirt underneath and John could feel how cold and clammy his skin was and he continued undressing him. 

“Did you take anything?” John asked carefully. 

“No,” Sherlock replied firmly. 

“Okay,” John said as he set the wet clothes aside. When he reached to undo the trousers Sherlock stopped him. 

“I wanted to, I went looking for it, but in the end I didn't get any,” Sherlock said as he held onto John. 

“It's okay Sherlock, I believe you,” John said. 

“Good, that's good,” Sherlock muttered releasing John's hands. John unfastened the trousers and pulled them down. Sherlock held his shoulder to balance while he stepped free of the wet clothing until he was glad only in pants and socks. With a sigh he dropped himself onto the bed and bent to remove the socks, tossing them haphazardly on top of the pile. When he made no further move John reached over and gently cupped his chin so that he could tilt Sherlock's eyes to meet his own. 

“I'm sorry about your dad,” John said softly. Sherlock blinked at him, clearly confused before shaking his head with a snort. 

“Don't be, I despised him,” Sherlock said defiantly. This was news to John, but in a way it made sense. Before today he'd never heard either of the Holmes brothers mention their father. Given how emotionally stunted they both seemed to be John suspected their childhood had not been an easy one. 

“Doesn't matter, he was still your father and you're still upset,” John said finally. 

“Completely illogical,” Sherlock said, clearly annoyed by his own perceived shortcomings. 

“That's fine, it's just us here, you be as illogical as you'd like,” John said, caressing a cold cheek. 

Sherlock reached up and rested his hand over John's,”Stay here tonight. We don't have to do anything, I'd just prefer if you were close. Just for tonight.”

John reached with his free hand and brushed a wet curl aside before leaning forward to plant a kiss on Sherlock's forehead. The detective closed his eyes and leaned into the contact. 

“Get into something dry and warm, I'll grab Will's monitor and be right back,” John whispered.

Sherlock nodded as John stepped out and went to prepare for bed. He went upstairs easing his way into his bedroom as quietly as possible and stripping down to just his pants and vest. He grabbed his robe and the baby monitor before heading down to the loo to take care of his nightly rituals. When he was done he paused and steadied himself outside of Sherlock's half-shut bedroom door. This is totally okay and not weird at all John reassured himself as he pushed the door open and stepped inside. 

Sherlock had changed his pants, but otherwise remained as undressed as John had left him, sitting on the edge of his bed gazing intently at the floor. John untied his robe and hung it on the hook over Sherlock's before self consciously glancing down at himself. Compared to the lithe man on the bed John felt he'd gone a bit soft in his civilian life. He wondered if Sherlock was even aware of the disparity that existed between them physically. John was certainly no slouch, but Sherlock was built like a model. It was no wonder women were always trying (unsuccessfully) to throw themselves at him.

Deciding that now was not the proper time to be concerned about such things, John went and sat next to Sherlock, putting his arm around the younger man and pulling him close. Sherlock put up no resistance, just slumping against the doctor's side before curling inward to rest his head on John's shoulder. 

“You okay?” John asked. 

“Why wouldn't I be?” Sherlock asked with sigh. 

“It's fine if you're not, you know,” John said carefully. He felt Sherlock tense a bit in his arms and quickly planted a kiss on the mans head to reassure him. 

“I meant what I said John, I despised my father,” Sherlock said as he pulled away and straightened himself upright. 

“Okay,” John said holding up his hands in placating gesture. 

“Even if he was right,” Sherlock said with a frown. As the words left his mouth he seemed to realize he'd said too much and his eyes widened in fleeting panic before he quickly jumped to his feet and walked to the other side of the bed, drawing back the duvet. 

“Right about what?” John asked twisting around to keep his eyes locked on the detective. 

“It's irrelevant, get some sleep John, we'll need to check in at the Yard tomorrow,” Sherlock said as he climbed under the duvet and pulled it up over his waist. 

John bit his lip in frustration. He was a soldier, he wanted to charge in and find a way to solve the problem, but he knew that didn't work with people, and almost certainly not with someone as exceptional as Sherlock Holmes. He stood and pulled back the duvet on his side before slipping in behind Sherlock. Sherlock reached and pulled the switch on the lamp settling the room in darkness. 

John considered his options and quickly decided that now was not the time to be worried about his own hangups. He rolled toward Sherlock and shuffled right up behind the man before wrapping his arm around him, drawing him close. 

“I'm here Sherlock. Right here if you need me,” John said. The detective didn't respond and John was just about to settle in and try to get some sleep when he felt Sherlock roll over to face him. John let his arm settle back down on Sherlock's hip. He couldn't make out much in the darkness beyond the outline of the man's form. 

“Do you mean that?” Sherlock whispered. 

“Yes, of course, always,” John replied quickly, pulling the man close against his chest. Sherlock nuzzled against him, his long thin arms wrapping around the doctor. 

“John, I think, I need you,” Sherlock said slowly. 

John was just about to ask what he needed when he felt Sherlock's lips crash against his own. They'd done a fair bit of snogging as of late, but this was almost frantic and desperate compared to their sessions on the sofa. 

Quickly losing himself to Sherlock's nipping and laving, John felt the warmth of the detective's mouth encompassing his own. Sherlock's clever fingers traced the hem of John's vest before slipping underneath it to caress the skin there. John felt the detective's hands splaying across his sides, and shifted to give him more room to explore. Taking this as a sign of consent, Sherlock grabbed the bottom of the vest and tugged it upward imploringly. John got the hint and sat up so that he could be liberated of the garment. Sherlock felt his way up John's chest and carefully circled each nipple with his nimble fingers. 

Deciding that two could play that game, John pulled Sherlock down on top of him and smoothed his hands along the lean muscle of the detective's body. Sherlock huffed softly against his lips and without thinking John rubbed his hips forward seeking some much needed friction. When his half-hard cock felt the shape of another man's penis through his pants John startled a bit breaking off the kiss. 

“What's wrong?” Sherlock asked jerking away as if he'd done something to hurt the man under him. 

“Sorry, just felt weird,” John replied sheepishly, realizing how ridiculous he sounded and hating himself for it. 

Sherlock just seemed to hang there a moment as if he wasn't sure what the proper response might be, and really John thought, who could blame him? Knowing that he had one chance to salvage things John reached out and grabbed hold of Sherlock's arm, pulling the man back down to him. 

“It's fine, just new,” John said as he planted a kiss on Sherlock's chin. 

“You don't have to,” Sherlock paused as he composed himself before starting over, “we can just sleep.”

“Do you want to sleep?” John asked. 

“No,” Sherlock admitted. 

“Good, me neither,” John said as he pulled Sherlock in for another deep kiss. Their tongues vied for control as Sherlock's hand went to the waist of John's pants. John felt his heart pounding as he lifted his hips and allowed Sherlock to undress him fully. In the darkness John couldn't see where Sherlock's gaze went, but he could feel the detective's hands as they slid down his waist and over his thighs. 

Sherlock broke off the kiss and John felt the bed shift under the man's weight. When Sherlock leaned back over him John ran his fingers lower confirming that the detective was now likewise divested of clothing. John leaned over to cup Sherlock's perfect arse as the detective stretched out alongside him. 

John could feel his own erection bobbing against his lower abdomen as he slowly ran his hands over Sherlock's body. The detective mewled against his lips when he ran his hand along the inside of the man's thigh. Unable to ignore his curiosity any longer John slid his hand up until he was gently cupping Sherlock's bollocks, kneading them softly between his fingers. 

Sherlock seemed to have forgone his own explorations, his hand holding firmly onto John's hip as he bit back a moan. Deciding that he bloody well needed to hear what Sherlock sounded like when he came undone, John pressed his tongue against the man's lips until he gained entry again. John let his fingers wrap delicately around Sherlock's engorged member and ever so slowly stroked upwards. He was rewarded with more intimately arousing sounds against his own lips as he refused to cede his control of the detective's mouth. 

“John, please,” Sherlock whimpered, nearly sending John crashing over the edge then and there. 

“How?” John asked as he continued stroking Sherlock's cock, swirling his thumb over the head each time he reached the tip. 

Sherlock scooted himself against the doctor pressing their heated erections against each other before reaching down and wrapping his hand firmly around them both. John keened at the sensation as Sherlock slowly stroked upwards before releasing them so he could slide his hand through their accumulated precome. The featherlight touch over his glans had John twitching with interest, it felt like all his nerves were on high alert waiting to see what the brilliant creature beside him would try next. 

Now moderately lubricated, Sherlock once again wrapped his hand snugly around the base of their cocks. John reached for his hip, jerking them together as the doctor kissed and nipped along his neck. Unable to do without the glorious friction that his transport so desperately craved, Sherlock rocked his hips forward sliding their cocks in his grip. Realizing what the plan was, John was quick to join in on the steady pace of the thrusting, one arm wrapped awkwardly under Sherlock's neck when the other hand held onto the man's arse firmly.

The darkness came alive with soft moans and steady panting as both men cantered closer to their climax. The soft slide of flesh on flesh with intermittent slapping sounds when their pace inevitably faltered was broken at last when John cried out softly, spilling his pent up release between them. Sherlock's moan was a deep rumble in the back of his throat as he came as well, in long hot spurts against his abdomen. 

Both men lay panting in the dark, catching their breath for several minutes. Eventually, Sherlock rolled away and came back with a cloth which he used to clean away as much of the sticky mess as he could locate. John rolled to his back and let Sherlock wipe him off as his mind swam with haphazard thoughts trying to process what had just happened. He rolled to his side while Sherlock tossed the cloth away and curled up behind him, effectively spooning the smaller man. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, giving John a squeeze before he rolled back to his side of the bed, leaving the doctor alone to dwell on the night's events. The only thing John was certain of by the time he finally drifted off to sleep was that there was definitely no coming back from this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of part one. If you have any splendid ideas for a name for this series I'd love to hear them. 
> 
> Wrapping this up for now. I'll start writing part two, The Ties that Bind, after NaNoWriMo and I sincerely hope to see some of you back for that. You have all been wonderful, thanks for all the kudos, comments, and subscriptions.


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